


Slow Dancing in a Burning Room

by Wordwielder



Category: Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Marriage, Pregnancy, Some angst, Therapy, proposal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordwielder/pseuds/Wordwielder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Mary Jane Watson met a boy named Peter Parker and said, "Face it, Tiger, you hit the jackpot!"</p>
<p>They flirted, that ended, life went on. Their friend died, life went on, and they fell in love.</p>
<p>That feels like a long time ago.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>An AU where Mary Jane didn't know Peter was Spider-Man all along, and the repercussions of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Broken Arm of Human Law

**Author's Note:**

> This AU has occupied nearly all of my creative energy for about six months. It's completely written, so updates should be fairly frequent. This chapter has some non-explicit sexual content, like most of the fic, but there will be some explicit smut later on too. Also, expect plenty of cursing. Other than the obvious canon divergence, I've done my best to relay the complicated world of Spider-Man in accordance with the comics. The title comes from the song of the same name by John Mayer, and this chapter's title is from "One Headlight" by the Wallflowers. Please, please give me a review if you're so inclined...you work on something this long, you start to get very self-conscious about it.
> 
> Without further ado, the fic!

Once upon a time, Mary Jane Watson met a boy named Peter Parker and said, "Face it, Tiger, you hit the jackpot!"

They flirted, that ended, life went on. Their friend died, life went on, and they fell in love.

That feels like a long time ago.

* * *

That's it. _It._ She's fucking done. God, what the hell has she been thinking for the last three years? Yeah, Peter is gorgeous with those eyes and the piece of hair always falling onto his forehead, and yeah he can be really funny, and yeah, she likes the nights he takes her out and they have fun, and yeah, he's a great kisser, and he's sweet, and he's—well, he's Peter. Her Peter.

But the sweetness and the eyes are nothing next to the way he acts like she's just there when he's not busy doing God knows what and the way he frequently breaks dates without any real explanation and how closed off he can be.

Yeah, she loves him— _more than life itself,_ an incredibly unhelpful voice in her head adds—but she's worth more than this. She's worth more than a distracted kiss and no gift this morning and a missed dinner reservation on their goddamn anniversary and waiting three hours and drinking wine while the waitress sends her pitying looks.

Three years, and he still misses their anniversary.

She throws everything in her suitcases haphazardly. She knows she's going to leave stuff behind, but whatever. She wants to get out as soon as possible, and if it means leaving behind hairbrushes and underwear, so be it.

She zips up her bags and starts marching towards the door. She thinks about leaving a note, but hell, if Peter can't figure out why she left, she doesn't even need to justify it. And that's _if_ he notices her clothes are gone within the next day. She might have time to get her phone shut off and take a plane out of here before he can track her down. Cut Peter Parker out of her life totally, and start over.

The thought dims her anger and turns into cold fear churning in her stomach as she imagines life without her Tiger. Then she tells herself to shut the fuck up and get out of the apartment.

She hears the door handle turn and she curses her moment of hesitation.

"Mary Jane?" his voice is apologetic and she thinks, _look at that, he must've remembered._

"I know you're gonna be mad, but…" he enters the kitchen with a bouquet of her favorite lilies. He stops suddenly when he sees the suitcases.

"OhMyGod," he croaks out. She crosses her arms over her chest.

"I'm leaving, Peter." She is both proud of and cringing inwardly at her perfectly firm, angry voice. "I'm done with this bullshit. I'm better than this."

He stares at her, his eyes impossibly wide.

"Ba—"

"Don't you baby me so I won't be mad. I'm done, Peter. There's nothing you can say." She grabs the handle of a suitcase, and Peter drops the flowers and steps close to her.

"Mary Jane," he rasps. "God, I fucked up. I fucked up so good this time."

"That's my point, Peter! This isn't the first time and it's not gonna be the last, either."

"What if it was?" he asks, his eyes shining with fear.

"But it's not going to be. I'm not stupid enough to do this again."

"Mary Jane, I swear to God, I will change. I'll be everything you deserve. I'll –anything you want, I will give you. Please, MJ, please, just stay with me. Just give me one more chance."

She wants to tell him to screw himself, but one look at his stupid eyes do her in—because he's about to cry, and he looks so sincere, and he means it. She knows he means it. He has to mean it.

"I'm mad at you," she says.

He looks up, cautious hope appearing on his face.

"I'm really mad. I don't think I've ever been this pissed at you, actually." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "You better be serious, Peter. One more fuckup and I'm out of here. I'm not doing this anymore. I _can't_ do this anymore."

Peter nods and rises from the floor, hesitantly extending his hands towards her.

"I'm gonna go to Aunt Anna's for a few days to cool off. I'm serious—you better be being honest with me."

"I am," he swears, and he tenderly strokes her cheek. She half-wants to lean into the touch and half-wants to slap it away, so she compromises by staying stiff.

"I'll make it up to you if it kills me," Peter says. His voice is strained, but determined.

"You'd better," she says, and she pulls his hand off her face before taking only one case with her to Anna's. She gets there, hugs her aunt and asks to be alone, and cries hysterically the moment she ends up in her old room, right across from Peter's old room in May's house.

Why did she give ever someone so much power to hurt her?

* * *

Three days later, she goes home. (Because as much as she hates it, that ratty apartment is home because it's _Peter._ ) She blinks when she enters, because _what the hell?_

"Mary Jane?" Peter calls.

"Did you _paint?"_ she demands.

He pokes his head out from the kitchen and grins. "Yeah. I know you always hated how dingy those walls were, so I thought you'd like that shade of blue. Do you?" She nods. He's only wearing a pair of old jeans, slung low on his hips, and paint is smeared on his shoulder and abdomen, and dammit, but the sight is spreading a familiar hunger through her. She wonders if the bastard is trying to seduce her on purpose.

"You wanna see the kitchen?" he asks hopefully. She nods and follows him slowly. He's halfway through painting it yellow. A lump rises in her throat, much to her annoyance. Her mom's kitchen was yellow. She always wanted one like that, and Peter knows that.

"Sorry it's not finished yet," he says, "I thought you'd be gone longer."

She turns to him, intending to fire back a snappy retort, but she looks into his warm, beautiful eyes and she can't help leaning forward and kissing him.

His lips are soft and timid against hers, but she can feel when his confidence rises and he begins to press more insistently back and his tongue swipes against her lower lip in a silent question. She lets him in, God knows why— _but you do know why,_ that annoying voice pipes up—and then he's pulling out every trick she likes, and she moans a little. She feels his hand slip into her hair, soothingly running his fingers through it, and then he pulls away.

"That was…okay, right?" he says anxiously.

"I kissed _you,_ you goof," she rolls her eyes. He leans back in and starts kissing her roughly, and her head is starting to pleasantly swim.

"Well, I did that time," he points out, smirking. "Still okay?"

"Yeah," she says softly. "Do it again."

They make love on the kitchen floor, even though Peter offers to carry her into the bedroom or at least the couch. She tells him no, for God's sake keep going, and he resumes his attentions to her neck. While Peter has never been selfish during sex, this time is he is nothing but focused on her. She's utterly breathless, blissfully sated, by the time they finally collapse against the linoleum.

"Jesus Christ, Peter," she huffs out a laugh. "You didn't have to be so…thorough."

"Yes I did," he insists. "I wish you'd let me take you into our room, though. You'll be sore later."

"I'll make you give me a massage," she says breezily, and feels a little touched when he nods seriously.

"Anything you want, I said," he reminds her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Why don't you go rest awhile, huh? I wanna finish up here today. The bedroom is green, by the way. Reminds me of you."

She kisses him and starts to rise before he scoops her up in his arms and literally carries her to bed and tucks her in.

"Carrying me princess-style is not necessary."

"Milady, I live to serve."

"Hey, what's that?" she pokes at his side where he has a mass of greenish bruises, spreading down onto his back and hip. She didn't even notice them earlier. _Too horny,_ she thinks, amused. He winces.

"Jesus, sorry," she apologizes.

"I was late to dinner because I got caught up in taking photos of Spidey and the Goblin," he admits. "I got hit into a brick wall. I'm lucky I didn't break any bones."

She growls, "You idiot! This is exactly what I meant—you missed our anniversary for pictures? To get hurt?"

"I'll never do it again," he says, positioning her under the covers. She crosses her arms. "Oh, yeah? I'm having trouble buying that, sorry. "

"I quit the Bugle," he says. She blinks. "Oh."

"It was too crazy a job," he says. "And it was _horrible_ pay, anyway. I've got an interview somewhere else next week."

"Still, I'm sorry," she says softly, biting her lip. "I didn't want you to have to quit your job. You loved taking pictures."

"I can still take pictures, just not of crime battles," he says lightly. She opens her mouth to apologize again, but he shakes his head, smiling a little.

"I'd rather have you here than a job, MJ."

She drags him back into bed with her, ignoring the mumbled, "But I need to finish painting!" vibrating over her neck.

* * *

Things change—for the better.

Peter starts getting home exactly when he promises. Sometimes, he gets home early to surprise her with a flowers or a homemade meal (which she does her best to eat enthusiastically, because Peter is not a great cook). They spend the evenings cuddled up on the couch, watching her favorite movies while Peter kisses her temple, her neck, her mouth if he can angle it right. Peter has never tried harder to please her in bed, either, and she's enjoying the results.

As much as she likes being doted on, after about a month, she tells him to knock it off. His eyebrows scrunch together and he frowns like she just canceled Christmas.

"But I'm still making it up to you," he protests.

"Tiger, no," she says firmly. "That's unhealthy. You've been wonderful, and it's great and all, but you can't always be constantly focusing on me being happy. You being happy makes me happy."

"Well, ditto," Peter argues.

He's so put out she has to laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Peter, listen. Just be your wonderful self and…keep your promises, okay? That's all I need to be happy."

"I will," he says softly.

"You don't need to make anything up to me anymore. I won't leave you," she swears. "I can't. I can't ever. I—I'd die without you."

He looks at her, his eyes bright and intense, an expression on his face like she's voiced some fundamental truth. "Exactly," he says.

She doesn't really realize until she's standing waiting in the subway one day next to a Bugle screaming, " _Crime Rate Skyrockets! Where Is Spider-Man?"_ that Spider-Man has quit web-slinging. She flips through the story, grimacing at Jolly Jonah's colorful epithets for Spidey. Apparently no one's seen him in a month or so, and Jonah's theory is he's been incarcerated or realized that people hate him. Huh. Funny Peter hasn't mentioned Spidey's disappearance. They're both fans. Peter hates Jonah using his pictures to slander Spider-Man, but he's always needed the money. The only good news the Bugle reports is that the Green Goblin has also disappeared. Maybe they finished each other off, JJJ suggests hopefully.

She mentions it that night over dinner, and Peter accidentally chokes on his water. "Sorry," he coughs. "Yeah…he's just gone."

"Did he say anything to you?"

Peter shakes his head. "Not in so many words. Last time I saw him he just said sorry and webbed away before I could ask what for."

"No idea why he stopped?"

Peter hesitates. "He's seemed kind of…burnt out. I mean, I can't imagine how hard it is for him to always be saving people and then have rabid dogs like JJJ after him all the time. I think maybe it got to be too much for him to be Spider-Man and be whoever else he really is, too."

"That's awful," Mary Jane says. "Poor guy. We both owe him our lives. I hope he's doing okay."

"I hope so too," Peter says quietly, and he picks up his fork and starts again on his lasagna.

They fall into a beautiful routine. Peter pulls up his grades almost miraculously and graduates with honors. His new job has him banking hours at a research lab with steady pay. Her Peter, who always used to be late to everything, gets an award for punctuality that she laughs at for ten minutes before framing and hanging it up in the kitchen to tease him. The pay is good. Next thing she knows, a beaming Peter shows her the lease for a cozy apartment in a nice neighborhood. They move in a month later, and she's never been so happy. Peter seems happy, too. Less distracted, less tired, less worried. He decides to teach AP biology; she starts focusing on Broadway. He comes to all her shows at least twice with flowers and a goofy grin.

It takes a while to notice a few new tics, but MJ is too afraid to ask where the hell they came from. Things have been so good for so long, and she's not ready for the bliss to end.


	2. Softly Stop My Evil Dreams

MJ wanders into the kitchen, toweling off her hair and humming, when she hear someone knock. It’s the middle of the day on a Tuesday. Who could that be? Have they been there for a while?

She pulls the door open, saying, “Sorry, I was in the shower- Peter? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

Peter is standing on their welcome mat, brimming with nervous energy, a twinkle in his eye.   “I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d share some dessert with you.”

She opens her mouth to ask what the hell he’s on about when he hands her a box of Cracker Jacks.

“Cracker Jacks? I haven’t had these since I was a kid…” She digs in the box. “Look, they still have a toy in every-“

The realization hits her suddenly, and she stares at Peter wide-eyed. The ring isn’t plastic, low-quality. In her hand she holds a real diamond ring. She can feel the weight of it in her hand as she stammers out, “Peter…wh-what does this mean?”

Peter sinks to one knee.

“Mary Jane Watson, will you marry me?” His face is so open, so eager, and she wants to say yes so badly, but her parent’s voices are arguing in her head, telling her to get out now before she’s trapped, telling her she’s not good enough to be someone’s wife.

 She opens her mouth to try to explain it, while also minimizing how fucked-up she is, and all that comes out is, “I’m not the down home and marrying kind.”

Peter’s face falls, and she looks at him pleadingly. The he says, “Do you really think that, or do you think you’re supposed to think that?”

“I _want_ to say yes, Peter,” she says. “I just—“

“Then do,” he says. “C’mon. Are you happy with me?”

“Of course, I’ve never been happier,” she insists.

“Then why not, baby?”

She bites her lip. He looks so confident, so determined, and fuck, he’s right. Fuck, she loves him and she wants him and she’ll feel the same in a year, ten years, twenty, fifty.  Why the fuck not say yes? Why let her dad keep ruining her life?

“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, oh my God, let’s do it.”

Peter grabs her by her waist and twirls her around, and they’re both laughing breathlessly. “Oh my God, we’re getting married!” Peter shouts.

“We’re getting married!” she yells back.  He pulls her in, and they entwine together and thoroughly scandalize their elderly neighbor when she opens her door to investigate all the noise. Then they take the celebration inside.

They plan the wedding quickly. It’s a simple ceremony, sparsely decorated, with only their nearest and dearest in attendance, in a church in Forest Hills. Mary Jane’s one extravagance is her dress, a white mermaid tulle number that makes her feel like an old Hollywood star.

Before she knows it, she’s walking down the aisle, holding a bouquet of lilies, the wedding march flowing over her skin.  She’s got Harry on her arm, and he leans over and whispers, “I’m proud of you both,” as they reach the end of the aisle and he goes to stand next to the other groomsmen and she steps up by her husband and the preacher.

She turns to Peter and they just gaze at each other in wonder as the pastor welcomes their family and friends.  He’s looking at her like she hung the moon, as her mother used to say, like she’s everything, and she knows she must be looking the same way back at him.

“Mary Jane Watson, do you take this man, Peter Parker, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish as long as you both shall live?”

Mary Jane grins, feeling tears running down her cheeks.  “I will take this man—this very special man—to be the most important thing in my life,” she answered. “Because that’s exactly what I’ve realized he already is. I do.”

The pastor smiles, turning to Peter. “And do you, Peter, take this woman, Mary Jane Watson, to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, for richer and poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish as long as you both shall live?”

Peter’s eyes glisten as he answers, his eyes never leaving hers. “She knows better than anyone else what’s she’s getting into—and she still wants me! How could I possibly turn down someone like that? I do.”

“Then by the power vested in me by the sovereign state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the pastor beams. “You may kiss the bride.”

They fly together, lips crashing, and her heartbeat sings in her chest. He dips her, to wolf whistles and catcalls from their guests. Finally, they pull apart, and the crowd applauds as they prance off to take wedding photos.  They take their honeymoon in Key West, making love in the mornings with the windows open, listening to the sound of the waves, and spending the days on the beach. At night, they go out to cabana bars and the occasional dance hall, which Peter grimaces through and she loves.

The next few months are genuinely perfect, full of soft kisses over her skin in the morning as she wakes up, coffee made exactly like she likes, date nights, teaching Peter to cook, christening every surface in their new rental house with amazing sex, movies on their old couch, pictures of them beaming being placed neatly on the mantle.

The dreams come on suddenly.

Mary Jane rolls over one night and yawns as she cracks up her eyes and checks the clock. 3:28 A.M. Plenty of time to go back to sleep. She reaches for Peter to reposition herself next to him, then realizes he’s not in bed.

She sits up, running a hand over her mussed hair. She listens for a second, but he’s not in the bathroom. She places a hand on where he _should_ be, but his place is cold. He hasn’t been there for a while.

She slips on one of his t-shirts, discarded by the bed, padding to the living room.  No Peter shaped lump on the couch. She moves to the kitchen, where Peter is typing away on his laptop, drinking a beer absently. He’s massaging one temple with his fingertips like he does when he’s got a migraine coming on.

“Peter?”

He looks up. “Hi, honey.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

He glances at the clock. “Why are you up?”

“Why are you?” she retorts, crossing her arms. “The bed was cold without you.”

“I had a dream, is all. Needed to clear my head, thought some work might do the trick.”

She sits down next to him. “What was it about?”

He sighs. “Uncle Ben.”

She frowns. “What happened?”

“I watched him bleed out while he asked me why I wouldn’t help him,” Peter says flatly. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even talk.” He presses a key on his keyboard viciously.

“You’re still dreaming about that day?” she asks quietly, taking his hand from his temple and kissing it.

“I’m never going to _not_ dream about it,” he says.

“But it’s been a while since you had one of them. Is something else stressing you out?”

He smiles wryly at her. “You should be a psychologist. You’re a perceptive girl.”

“Thank you, but I’m worried about you,” she frowns. “How long have you been up?”

“Two, three hours?” he shrugs.

“Pete, you only got three hours of sleep!” she scolds. “That’s it. Shut it down, brain. You’re going to bed. MJ’s tucking you in.”

He groans; she snaps his laptop shut. “ _Now_ , mister.” He flops in his chair and pretends he’s not going anywhere, so she puts her hands on her hips and says sweetly, “Would you like to get laid anytime in the next month?”

That gets him going. She smirks.

“I don’t think I’ll get back to sleep,” he says as she pushes him into bed and pulls the blankets around him.

“Yes you will,” she promises. “Close your eyes.” He sighs his ‘Fine, I’ll indulge you’ sigh, and she starts to hum “In My Life” quietly as she rucks up his shirt.

“Unclothing me isn’t going to get me tired,” he whispers.

“I’m rubbing your back, jackass, not getting you naked. I’m too tired to sleep with you in _that_ way.”

“Too bad,” he says, but he falls silent and lets her rub out the tension from his muscles. She hums old songs and massages until the deep, regular pattern of his breathing tells her he’s asleep at last, and she kisses his warm skin and closes her eyes, falling asleep in a moment.

-

The nightmare isn’t an isolated incident. The next time it happens, Mary Jane wakes up with Peter crying, _“No! Gwen!”_ next to her.

“Peter, wake up!” she urges, shaking his shoulder.

He sits bolt upright, almost colliding with her in the dark.

“God,” he breathes. “MJ?” his voice is shaky.

“I’m here,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around his neck. “What was it this time?”

“Gwen, on the bridge,” he exhales, and his grip tightens on her waist. “She asked me to save her, but I couldn’t. The Goblin just—and the way she looked at me, Mary Jane—like I had let her down…“

Mary Jane ignores the twist in her gut. It’s perfectly normal for Peter to still think about Gwen. She was his first serious relationship, and he loved her. Part of him probably always will, just like how part of Mary Jane will always mourn for her friend.  It doesn’t mean he loves _her_ any less. Being jealous of a living, breathing girl is one thing; being jealous of a memory is another entirely.

“Baby, you couldn’t have saved Gwen. I know that, and you do, too. It’s horrible, what happened, but it happened, and we can’t go back.”

“I know,” he answers after a beat. “I wouldn’t go back, Mary Jane. I wish Gwen had lived, but—you might not be in this bed.”

“I would have fought my way into your heart eventually,” she tries to tease, but it comes out uncertain and almost afraid.

“You are the only person I want,” he says, and she crashes her mouth against his, afraid of how much she wants.

“Let me make it better,” she says breathlessly.  His gaze burns into her as he slides a hand up her neck, and she shivers.

“Okay,” he whispers, and she pulls off their clothes.

_

Mary Jane observes how the skin under Peter’s eyes is purpling as she sets two pieces of toast and a jar of jam in front of him. He sends her a weak smile as he starts to spread some on his toast.

“Another dream?” she asks.

He nods. “Worse this time.”

“What happened?”

He tells her how he cradled a bloody Aunt May in his arms, watching the light drain from her eyes, and had no answer when she asks why he wasn’t there.

“I’m going to go see her today,” he adds. “To check up.”

“I’m sure she’s fine, but it’ll probably make you feel better,” MJ agrees. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, I just want some one on one time with her, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” she nods. “Give her my love.”

Peter returns home after work and a long dinner with May looking relieved and somewhat more cheery. Mary Jane is on the couch, watching _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ and munching on Cap’n Crunch. Peter wrinkles his nose. “Was that dinner?”

“Yep,” she grins. “And it was awesome. How was Aunt May?”

“Great,” Peter says, dropping next to her and curling an arm around her shoulders. He’s smiling for real, and it eases her mind. “Her blood pressure has even dropped. She’s recruiting us to help expand the garden next week.”

“See? It was fine. Just a dream, baby.”

“Just a dream,” he agrees.

The dreams stay away for almost a month.

Then he wakes up screaming, “ _MJ! No!”_

She springs off of where her head was resting on his chest, yanking the blanket up and around her.

“Peter!” She yells, and his writhing limbs freeze. For a moment, all either of them can hear is their heavy breathing.

“Mary Jane?” Peter whispers.

“Shhh,” she croons, climbing onto his lap. “What happened, baby? I thought they had gone away.”

“They had,” he murmurs, looking up at her with anguished eyes.  “It was you this time.”

“Me?” she frowns.

“You had been shot, and you were standing there with your guts hanging out, and I tried to save you, but you—you looked at me and said, ‘I’m dead because of you, Tiger.’ And you…you died, and I couldn’t—” He chokes, burying his face in her hair.

“Peter.” She pulls away and presses his ear to her chest. “Hear that? It’s my heart. I’m alive. I’m fine. It was just a dream.”

He nods against her body. They stay in that position for hours. MJ calls them both in sick in the morning, and Peter doesn’t even protest.

“Do you wanna get out of bed?” she asks softly. He shakes his head miserably.  She nods, presses a kiss to his cheek, and makes them tea in the kitchen and brings it back to bed.

Peter gives her a ghost of his smile as he sips his tea. She sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Something is making this happen,” she says. “I can’t make you tell me what. But I wish you would.”

He stares into his cup.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Don’t apologize,” she says, stroking his hair. “I just wish I could help.”

“You are,” he says firmly. “I swear.”

She lies back beside him. “Let’s just stay here today,” Peter says. She nods, trying to convince herself he’s fine, and if not, he will be.

_

He never knows when he will dream.  When Uncle Ben, Harry, Aunt May, Gwen, Captain Stacy, Liz, Flash, Mary Jane, will pop up in his dreams, dying and asking accusingly why he wouldn’t save them.

Peter finds himself lying awake for hours after she falls asleep, exhausted but unable to sleep. He’s lucky if he slips off at two or three, and luckier still if he stays asleep until his six A.M. alarm goes off. He tries to stay engaged with his classes, but he can feel his enthusiasm paling, and his kids notice.

“You okay, Mr. Parker?” Krissy Tran asks after class. He smiles wanly. “Just tired, Krissy.”

He falls asleep one day after classes let out, and wakes up at five to three missed calls from Mary Jane and the school janitor’s confused, “You alright, man?”

Mary Jane’s annoyance with him dissipates after he admits why he’s so late. Then she’s just worried.

The next morning, she hands him an appointment card. He frowns. “I thought my GP appointment was next month.”

“This isn’t for a checkup,” she says. “We’re going to see Dr. Colton together tomorrow to see if he can figure out what’s up with your sleep issues. I got us in so quickly because his daughter’s a fan of _The Neighborhood Kids_.” She’s referring to a show she’s got a recurring guest role on as the zany older sister, which she is frequently recognized for on the streets. 

“He’s not a therapist or anything, right?” Peter asks warily.

“No, he’s just well-recognized for his diagnoses,” she says. “I did research.”

The doctor examines him thoroughly. “Well, Mr. Parker, you are very physically fit, no worries there. Your wife says you’ve been having sleep difficulties.  Tell me what’s been happening.”

Peter fidgets, uncomfortable, but the doctor’s patient eyes and MJ’s pleading expression force him to stumble through an explanation of the insomnia and the dreams.

Dr. Colton nods sagely. “Not to be invasive, but how often are the two of you engaging in physical intimacy?”

MJ grins at him. “Pretty much every day, Doc. We’re not sick of each other just yet.”

The doctor smiles. “That’s good.  Do you exercise, Peter?”

“Often enough, yeah.”

“Eating regularly? Following a daily routine?”

“Yes.”

Dr. Colton pauses to think. “I’m going to give you a prescription for Ambien. I suggest you start your morning with a run or other form of exercise, try to eat a well-balanced diet, and if possible, engage in intimacy with your wife before you try to sleep. Sexual activity usual wears participants out and makes for a less troubled sleep.”

“Gotcha, Doc,” Mary Jane nods. “Anything else?”

“It sounds to me that your difficulty is not physical but mental. I highly recommend you visit a psychologist to determine the underlying causes and triggers of your nightmares.  However, that is your choice.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Peter says, shaking his hand.

In the car, he turns to her and says quietly, “I don’t want to go to a shrink.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I’m not going to _make_ you, Tiger. But I think you should think about it.”

He starts the car and doesn’t reply.

The Ambien and the sex seem to work well enough.  Peter sleeps restlessly, but he sleeps. Slowly, the purple fades from under his eyes, and he regains his energy.  His smile brightens to its old luster, and he’s still Peter.

Mary Jane’s worry fades for the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's worth mentioning the proposal and wedding dialogue derives mostly from canon. These cute bastards, I can't stand it.  
> Chapter title comes from Transpose by Bad Suns, who you should definitely check out ASAP.  
> Next chapter lots of plotty plot stuff happens. Stay tuned.


	3. Howling Ghosts, They Reappear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens. A lot of stuff here is setting up for next chapter, which will be a big one. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from King and Lionheart, by Of Monsters and Men.

Peter doesn’t like her to watch the news.

It’s not like he’s ever expressly forbidden her or anything. If he had, she would’ve told him he wasn’t her master and started watching it nonstop just to get the point across.

Just every time she’s got Channel 6 on as background noise when she’s cooking or when she stops to listen to a story when she’s channel surfing, Peter immediately tenses up unless the story is about kittens or something, which isn’t often, since face it, this is New York.

“Can you change it, honey?” he’ll mumble, rubbing his forehead in the way he does when he’s getting upset. If the story in question is particularly gory, he’ll wince and look away.  His eyes go all sad when newscasters deliver headlines like “Child killed in hit and run,” or “Explosion in Subway car killed thirty-seven people today.” Hell, they go almost anguished, and he’ll just stand up and leave abruptly.

She doesn’t turn to 6, 8, or 12 anymore if she knows Peter will be home.

Today the headline makes Peter turn white. She would’ve switched the channel before now, but Peter can move scarily stealthily sometimes, and she didn’t even hear him come in.

“Today twelve people were killed in an explosion which police determined came from a bomb in the shape of a pumpkin blaster similar to the kind formerly used by the Green Goblin. Police have not confirmed whether the Goblin is responsible for the attack or the perpetrator was a copycat, but eyewitnesses report seeing him at the scene.  We go now to Nancy Fields on site, who has been interviewing witnesses. Nancy?”

Peter drops his bag. 

“Oh my God,” he whispers.

The woman on screen being interviewed is crying. “His eyes,” she sobs. “The eyes—and the laugh, God, the laugh is the most terrifying thing—”

He suddenly staggers and clutches at the table to avoid falling. She drops the spatula she was using to flip pancakes and rushes to his side.

“ _Peter!”_

He grabs at her shoulder.  “How can he be back?” he says, his voice edging on hysterical. “I wouldn’t have— _it was over, MJ_ —“

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she says frantically, half-shoving him into a chair and grabbing his face in her hands. It looks like he’s having a panic attack.

He meets her eyes, looking like a caged animal, and she encourages, “That’s it. Honey, look at me. Just me. Baby. I love you. Breathe.”

Gradually, he comes back to her. “Sorry, baby,” he says quietly. “I just—you almost died, last time. “ He grabs her hands and kisses her knuckles.

“We need to get out of New York,” he says. She blinks.

“What?”

“We need to leave,” he repeats, in a tone she recognizes. It’s Peter’s ‘MJ, I’m not budging on this one, don’t even try to change my mind’ voice.

“What the hell, Peter? What about your job?”

“I can teach biology anywhere else, Mary Jane.”

“Okay, what about _mine_?”

“You’re just as beautiful away from here,” he insists. “We can go to LA.  It’s been a while since you’ve done TV.”

“What about Aunt May?”

“She’ll come with us.”

“You really think she’ll just agree to leave?”

“The Goblin almost killed her, too.” Peter’s voice is hard. She swallows, and his face softens. “It won’t be forever, MJ. I just—you need to be safe. He can’t take you from me.”

“Can we even afford it?” she protests, more weakly because Peter just _had_ to pull out his ‘It would kill me to lose you’ card. After all the people he’s lost…she can never argue back to that.

“I have an emergency fund. It’ll be enough for now.”

This is the first she’s ever heard of _that._ What the hell? Why wouldn’t he tell her about something like that? They have a joint bank account, for God’s sake, how could she _not_ know? Does he have another account? What the hell is going on?

“Peter,” she pleads, “Why are we running? Why do you think he’ll come back for us? Why would we matter?”

A battle is being fought on Peter’s face. “Mary Jane,” he finally says. “Please.”

“What aren’t you telling me?” she demands.

“Just trust me, MJ!” he snaps, voice rising.

“Why won’t you tell me the truth?” she yells.

“You’d think I’m nuts,” he mutters.

“Peter,” she warns.

“I can’t,” he hisses. “You’d—“

“What? What would I do, Pete? Tell me what I would do.”

“Leave!” his eyes are wild. She flushes, angry, ashamed.

“Peter,” she whispers. “I could never leave you.”

“You almost did,” he replies.

“That was years ago,” she yells, pissed he’s throwing back in her face what a younger and stupider MJ did. She suspects even if Peter hadn’t begged her to stay and she hadn’t caved, she would have come back within days. Even then, before he had completely and utterly wormed under her skin and into her veins, she could not live without Peter Parker. 

“But you would’ve, if I hadn’t—”

“We were both different then,” she cuts in, thinking about those days when Peter was never home and always breaking promises and constantly worn and tired and mysterious.  And she was impatient and flighty and tired, so tired, of waiting on Peter to be the Peter she knew he wanted to be, the one he is now, all the time.

“Exactly,” Peter says. “I changed for you. If I stay here—I might—go back.”

She cocks her head, and opens her mouth. “Please, darling,” he says. “Don’t ask me to explain. Let’s just go away. Just for a while.”

She wants to push, to yell, to lash out, but Peter looks exhausted in a way she hasn’t seen in years, and she’s really fucking scared, so she just nods. He looks at her like she is the goddamned sun, and grabs her and situates her on his lap and when his lips touch hers she can taste his relief on his breath.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Mary Jane.” He kisses her neck and she shifts so they’re pressed even closer.

“I love you,” he says, and she says it back as she starts to unbutton his shirt.

-

They sign a six month lease on an apartment in LA. They agree to discuss whether to stay or go back after that point.  Mary Jane plays a sidekick role in a new miniseries while Peter takes the class of a pregnant teacher.  Aunt May joins a knitting club and befriends other sweet old ladies.

They go to the beach most weekends. MJ likes to tease Peter by getting him to spread sunscreen on her back. Her skin doesn’t tan, just burns, but Peter’s skin browns beautifully and he looks sexy as hell.  She can never keep her hands off of him after a beach day.

After one such beach day, she’s reaching into their bedside drawer for a condom and comes up empty. “Fuck,” she hisses as Peter sucks behind her ear.  “Hm?” he inquires. “Was that a ‘fuck, Peter, keep going,’ or a ‘fuck, Peter, stop right now?’”

“Neither,” she grumbles. “We’re out of condoms.”

Peter hesitates. “Well…you’re on the pill, right? We’re probably fine.”

“Well, yeah,” MJ says. “But I don’t know. It’s a risk…”

“Mary Jane,” Peter says slowly, turning her body to face him and wrapping his arms around her waist as she settles on top of him. “I know this is probably the worst time ever to have this conversation, when I am literally so turned on I’m having trouble thinking, but—would it be so bad? To have a baby with me?”

Her eyes widen, and she wishes they had just had a damn condom and he was already inside her.

“I mean, do you want kids?” Peter’s voice sounds like he’s just realizing they should’ve had this co conversation before now.

She closes her eyes, thinks about her father and her mother and how they uniquely fucked their kids up.  She thinks of Peter, orphaned so young. How are the two of them equipped to take care of a tiny life?

She opens her mouth to say so, but Peter’s soft, worried eyes make her picture it, their baby. Tiny and pink and with those eyes she loves so much. A baby girl, maybe.  She pictures Peter holding her; she pictures looking down at a baby snuggled to her breast. She thinks of how happy she could make her Peter with a child. Children, even.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” she whispers, leaning down to kiss him. “I never wanted babies, Peter. But I want to have yours.”

“We don’t have to,” he whispers back, and she can see the self-sacrifice in his face. He wants babies. He wants them a lot. And if he does, she does too. Maybe she won’t fuck them up, with Peter by her side.

“I’ll go off my birth control pills tomorrow,” she swears, then smirks. “Now get going, sailor, I’m getting bored here.” She punctuates her words with a grind of her hips.

Peter grins devilishly and takes the challenge; as he makes her cry out and moan, she feels how much she loves him swelling inside her and spilling out, and it brings tears to her eyes.

They come down slowly, and she burrows her head into his shoulder.

Peter huffs a breath. “Every time I think it can’t possibly get better, you prove me wrong.”

She smiles and cuddles closer to him. “Ditto, tiger.”

-

MJ’s looking for a copy of their last tax return in Peter’s desk when she comes across a stack of newspaper clippings, all from New York papers. They all detail the rise in crime over the last year, and disturbingly, the exploits of the Goblin since his return. It seems the Avengers and the Fantastic Four have gotten involved, but the Goblin keeps evading them, and they don’t have the resources to chase him.  _Where IS Spider-Man?_ The Globe asks.

MJ feels sick, reading about murders and supervillains, and because Peter has carefully clipped these out and hidden them from her. _Why?_

She sets them back in the drawer and shuts it. Their tax return is in the drawer beneath it, clearly labeled. She knows she should ask Peter about the clippings. She spends all afternoon trying to think of how to word such a question.

_Why are you so fixated on New York when you made us leave?_

_Why are you so afraid of the Goblin?_

_Do you know where Spider-Man is?_

_What aren’t you telling me?_

She still hasn’t decided what the hell she’s going to say when Peter comes home. “Red?” he calls, and her worry is overridden by nostalgic happiness. Red was a nickname Peter gave her back at ESU. _The old days,_ she thinks wistfully.

“In here,” she calls. He’s got his jacket slung over his shoulder and is loosening his tie when he comes into her view.

“Hey, baby,” he kisses her briefly. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Uh, I needed our tax return,” she says. She should ask now. “What do you want to eat for dinner?” she asks instead. Later, she promises herself, but later never comes up.


	4. Dance One More Dance, and Tell One More Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a very important chapter- a lot of plot, emotion, what have you- and therefore it was the hardest for me to write. Also- this one is where I earn my explicit rating. I hope you're enjoying! Shit gets real in the next installment. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from Rainy Season by Hunter Hayes.

MJ had thought, naively, hopefully, that the nightmares were a New York thing. Then Peter screams next to her, and she jolts awake. “Peter!” she shouts, shaking his shoulder. He lunges up, fists swinging wildly, and she pushes back to avoid getting clocked.

Peter stills, his hands falling to his sides like snapped tree limbs hanging from the trunk. “Mary Jane?” he whispers.

“It’s just me, Tiger.”

“It was a dream,” Peter murmurs. “Sorry, baby. It was—Jesus.”

“That bad?”

“That bad,” he agrees grimly. 

“That’s the first one in a while.”

“Yeah.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

Peter’s eyes glitter in the dark. “I’d rather not.”

She sighs. “Fine. Okay. But you remember what the doctor said.”

“I’m doing everything he said!”

“He said there’s a trigger for these nightmares.  Maybe you should see someone,” she suggests, rubbing his shoulders.

“No, I’m fine,” he snaps.

“There’s nothing wrong with therapy, Pete.”

“I know that,” he says, exasperated. “I just—I don’t want to, okay?”

Mary Jane glares at him, but mutters, “Fine. Let’s go back to sleep.” She’s kinda pissed, but it’s three A.M. and she’s got a shoot for Covergirl in three hours. She kisses his cheek briefly and snuggles back under the covers. After a beat, Peter presses against her back and wraps his arm around her. He counts her breaths as she slips into sleep, and closes his own eyes.  This time, every civilian he’s ever neglected to save mobbed him. They were covered in blood and graveyard dirt, decaying, and screaming, “Why didn’t you save us?” They pulled closer and closer, their moans and sobs getting louder and louder, and sank over him, and over them he heard the sound of the Goblin cackling. Peter doesn’t sleep anymore that night. He barely even tries, afraid of what’s waiting behind his eyelids.

MJ checks the clippings three days later—the day of the nightmare, the Goblin killed an entire subway car full of people.  They were so mangled they couldn’t all be identified. New York is holding a mass funeral.  She puts the clippings away exactly how she found them and goes to drink away the image of the smoking subway car.

-

MJ gets a text from Peter a few days later that simply says, _Volunteering at soup kitchen tonight. Home at seven or so._ That’s the first she’s heard of this, but might be good for Peter to spend some time doing something to cheer him up.

Peter walks in the door with his tie in one hand and his sleeves rolled up. He’s humming something to himself, a hint of a smile on his face. She smiles at him, her messy, absentminded husband.  Man, she loves that bastard.  She pushes off the couch and kisses him in the middle of his, “Hey, babe.”

“Welcome home,” she murmurs, looping her arms around his waist and squeezing. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I think I am,” he says.

“You tired?” she says with that glint in her eyes that says she hopes not.

“Not too tired,” he grins. Mary Jane pulls him onto the couch on top of her.

At first, the shelter seems to help Peter a lot. He comes home full of stories of the people he talked to today and their lives, smiling animatedly.  His tension bleeds out of his limbs as he talks, and his kisses are full of a tenderness and fervor that had faded lately.  It helps so much MJ doesn’t object to Peter volunteering more and more hours, until he’s spending two hours a day there, on top of his nine hour days at the school.

Then she starts to wish she _had_ objected. It’s another quick-Band-Aid-slapped-on fix. He feels better for a while, but he sinks back into his sadness again at night, right in front of her eyes. He’s just so tired, crumpled up like a sheet torn out of notebook by the end of the day.  She tries to suggest he cut back, but he flat out refuses, insisting, “They need me there MJ, they’re incredibly understaffed,” and she feels like a selfish child for thinking, _but I need you here, too._

-

It starts with small tiffs, disappointed sighs, silences in places there have never been, all in between their normal good morning and goodnight kisses and lunchtime phone calls. This thing, this tension that she thinks may have always been hidden between them, is growing, slowly, but steadily, creating a distance she’s unsure how to address.  Peter never lets their arguments go too far, cutting her off right when she starts to lose control and raise her voice with some sort of calm dismissal: “Let’s just take a break, okay?” “Don’t stress yourself out, honey, we’ll talk about it later,” or “Don’t worry, babe, everything’s fine.”  

Finally, one night when she’s reading over her copy of her most recent script, she decides the time to ask what the hell is up is well-overdue. She should’ve pushed after the nightmares started, and she definitely should’ve asked about the clippings. He’s marking up papers and rubbing at his temple and she knows instinctively this is not the right time, but she has to, she can’t stand keeping quiet anymore.

“Peter?”

He looks up, putting down his red pen.  “Hm?”

“What’s going on?” she says without preamble. Peter flinches. “What d’you mean, hon?”

“Don’t play dumb with me,” she says more sharply that she meant to. She softens her voice as she adds, “You’re not okay, baby. What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“No you’re not! You’re having bad dreams again, you’re fucking exhausted, you’re doing way too much.”

“MJ,” he says. It sounds like a warning, like a verbal _abandon all hope, all ye who enter here._

“What happened in New York?” she demands. This comes back to New York somehow, and they both know it.

“ _Nothing!_ For Christ’s sake, MJ, that was ages ago! Drop it!”

“Yeah, okay, fine, just shut me out,” she hisses. “Whatever, not like I’m your wife.”

“I’m not shutting you out, you’re being ridiculous—”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” she shouts. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“You’re a shitty liar, Peter,” she snaps.  “Tell me what’s wrong!”

_“Just leave me alone!”_ His voice booms, and she freezes. She and Peter have argued countless times, they’ve raised their voices, but never has he yelled like that. She’s never been afraid of him before. He’s yelling like her father yelled when he was drunk and he was itching for a little mistake so he could punch someone and blame them for it.

He’s breathing harshly, and she’s gripping the kitchen counter so hard her knuckles are white.

“Fine,” she chokes out, trying not to sound hurt or scared or vulnerable in any way because that’s what makes it worse, every time, and she forces herself to let go of the tabletop. “I will.”  She walks deliberately to their room, thinking, _Don’t you cry, don’t you dare cry, you have to be alone before you cry._

She locks the door behind her and takes a deep breath before sinking to the ground and burying her face in between her knees. She cries silently, like she learned to do as a kid because her father hated the sound of sobbing.

She hears Peter approach the other side of the door and hesitate.

“Mary Jane?” He asks softly.

She doesn’t say anything.

He sighs. The door rattles a bit behind her as he slides down and sits, a mirror image of her on the other side.

Neither of them speak for a long time. Then Peter says, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn’t have yelled at you for being worried.”

She stays silent for a minute.

“Never talk to me like that again,” she says quietly. “I’m not my mother, Peter, and I won’t take that shit from you. If you’re mad at me, or you need space or whatever, fine. But I’m not your little submissive wife who’s gonna walk on eggshells.”

“Oh, God, MJ, I didn’t mean—” he falters. “I mean, I know I don’t think of you as my submissive little wife, I promise. I won’t yell like that again. Did—” his voice drops so low she can barely hear him. “Did I sound like him?”

They never talk about her parents. They’ve only _ever_ spoken of it once. She told Peter her sad sob story when she was drunk on her mother’s birthday in college, years ago. They weren’t even dating at the time—it was soon after Gwen, and he had stopped by to say hello right when she hit her fourth drink of whiskey.

“You okay?” he had asked, so concerned and perfect, and she had slung back another drink and grinned, “Yep. My mom would’ve been forty today, but she’s dead, so I’m drinkin’ for her. You want one?”

Somehow, he made her slow down her drinks before she killed herself, and she found herself telling him everything. How her father was such a good man, then such a bitter one, and the way he drank everything away and how she was poor and lonely and her mother _just took_ the screaming and the thrown bottles and the fear until she couldn’t anymore, and how they ran and ran from place to place and how her mom didn’t have enough fight left when she got sick.

“And that’s why I’m so royally fucked up, Peter,” she finished with a sharp smile.

He had bitten his lip and said firmly, “You’re not fucked up, MJ. You’re amazing.” She had started crying _because it wasn’t true_ , big, ugly, hyperventilating sobs, and he took her in his arms and she cried until she fell asleep. She woke up the next morning in her bed, with a bottle of water and some crackers and Tylenol neatly set out on her bedside table. She was too ashamed to even thank him, and they never mentioned it ever again.

“Yes,” she whispers, mortified at the tears spilling down her face. Peter opens the door a crack. “Can I please come in?”

She sniffles, and he comes in and pulls her into his chest. “I would never, ever, ever, hurt you like that,” he swears. “I would never hit you, or push you, or throw things at you, or call you the names he called you. I respect you, and I love you, and I would never want to make you so unhappy.”

“You don’t,” she says shakily. “I just—I worry sometimes, that this is too good. That you’re going to figure out that you should be with someone who’s better than me.”

“There is no one better than you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker,” he says, looking straight into her eyes. “I wish I could kill him for making you thinking you aren’t absolutely perfect.”

“Make me feel better, Peter,” she says softly, laying her hand on his chest. “Make me forget everything.”

It’s not often MJ is so vulnerable during sex. She likes to be in control. Sometimes, Peter takes the lead, but he knows MJ will tell him if he’s doing something she doesn’t like. Now, she’s looking at him with big, tear-stained eyes and letting him make all the decisions. 

He starts with a gentle kiss to her forehead, then to her cheek, then finally her mouth. Her eyes close, and she presses closer to him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, a promise to them both.

He slips her t-shirt over her head, and takes off his as well, tossing them aside. Her skin is so beautiful, pale and smooth, and he wants to worship every inch of it.

He starts with her shoulder, where light freckles are visible only up close. Mary Jane’s told him them cover them up at photo shoots, but he can’t see why someone would want to hide anything about her.  God, he’s lucky. He does his best to kiss each freckle on one shoulder before giving the other the same treatment.  He moves his mouth up to her neck, where he nips the skin red until he can’t resist sucking a mark. He knows he’s done well when her breathing starts to speed up.

He could spend hours here, he thinks. She loves having him kiss her neck. She wouldn’t let him though—she’d get impatient, tell him that she really wants his mouth elsewhere.  But she’s not going to tonight, he realizes. This is all on him.

So he sucks another mark on the junction between her shoulder and neck before he lifts his head and runs his tongue over the length of her collarbone.  She sighs.  He realizes she’s still wearing her jeans, and slides down her body to unbutton them.

“Lift up, sweetheart,” he says softly. She raises her hips, and he peels the jeans off her legs, smoothing his palms down from her thighs to her ankles. He considers what to do next, and realizes he wants nothing more than to just kiss her. His lips meet hers more roughly, and she matches his intensity. He traces her lips with his tongue, and she parts her lips so their tongues can meet.  He licks over the roof of her mouth, and she moans into his mouth.

“You’re perfect,” he tells her breathlessly when he finally pulls away, his hands caressing her breasts over the plain cotton bra she’s wearing.

“Peter,” she breathes out, arching into his touch. He reaches under her to unclasp her bra, and gently slides it off her breasts.  He swipes his thumb over her hard nipple, and she whimpers softly. He pinches the bud between his thumb and forefinger, and she gasps. He lets go, moving his fingers in concentric circles over her other breast, before lowering his mouth and sucking a nipple into his mouth.

“Oh,” she moans, her hands tangling into his hair. He uses his other hand to pinch at her other nipple again.  Then he switches off which nipple he’s sucking and which he’s rolling between his fingers. Her breath is harsh in his ears, and he wants to keep dragging those noises from her, but he has so much more to do to make her feel good, so he sits back up. He can’t resist blowing at her damp nipples, and she shivers at the sensation.

“You’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever known,” he says. She flushes, averting her eyes, but he tilts her chin back so she’s looking him in the eye.  “I mean that, Mary Jane.”

“Okay,” she finally says softly.  She’s not convinced, but he has time to change her mind. He licks a stripe in the space between her breasts, pressing hot kisses to her stomach, lower and lower, until he’s licking at the band of her panties.

“Peter, please,” she finally cries out. “God, I want –“

He peels her panties down her legs slowly, noting with satisfaction that they’re soaked, and parts her legs so he can get closer to her center.  He runs his fingers over her inner thighs, another place she’s sensitive, and then bites at them suddenly.

“Fuck!” She cries out, her back arching involuntarily.

Finally, he touches her where they’re both aching for.

He runs his finger over her folds, and she makes a small noise. He presses at her wet slit, and though he desperately wants to sink inside her heat, he won’t yet. He rubs at her labia and noses at her center, finally darting his tongue out and licking broadly over her.

“Oh, God,” she bursts out. “More, Peter, please.”

He laps at her with little kitten licks, moving up gradually to her clit. He sucks at the folds covering it before delivering a lick right on her clit.

“ _Fuck!_ ” she yelps.  He licks at the sides of her clit, noticing that she’s starting to grind her hips towards his face. He takes a moment to position her feet over his shoulders, and then presses his tongue as deep within her as he can, licking at her walls. He pulls out and returns to her clit, licking around it in circular patterns, then simply flicking his tongue against it. He sucks and licks and he gets lost in her taste and smell and how loudly she’s starting to cry out until she’s thrusting into his face and he hears her cry, “Peter, I’m— _oh God—_ “

And she comes.

Peter stops licking, not wanting to overwhelm her, and looks up at his wife. She’s flushed, chest heaving, and her eyes are wide and glassy. 

“Holy fuck, Peter,” she says. “That was—“

“We’re not done yet,” he says firmly. “You’re coming at least twice tonight. More if I can manage it.”

MJ blinks at him, then simply nods.

“It’s kinda hot when you use that authoritative voice,” she says.

“Hm, is that so?” he asks, grinning. “Alright, noted, baby.” 

“Kiss me?” she asks, and he smiles. “Always.”  This kiss is softer, gentler. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling her into his body. Moments pass, and he knows she’s ready to go again when her hand squeezes his erection through his jeans. He pulls off of her sweet mouth and cups her breasts, stroking them softly.

“I’m going to use my fingers this time, so I can still kiss you,” he tells her. His hand slides down her soft skin and brushes over her damp folds. He gently rubs her labia and presses at her slit before he sinks his first finger in, easily. She shifts her hips against him, and he rubs against the rough skin of her g-spot, crooking his finger and dragging it back.  She moans, rocking her hips onto his finger, so he slips in another and rubs harder. His other hand presses gently against her clit, pressing harder only when she starts to push against his hand.

“How’s that, baby?” he asks, thrusting his fingers harder.

“That’s good,” she pants. “Kiss me, please.”

He obliges. She sucks his bottom lip into her mouth, and wasn’t he supposed to be making _her_ come undone? Fuck, he’s so turned on, and he’s barely even thought about touching himself.  Their tongues swirl together, and his chest presses against her breasts. They’re undulating together in a slow, amazing rhythm, and fuck, it’s so good.

He feels the pressure build inside her, and he speeds up his efforts. She pulls away from his mouth to cry out a warning “Peter!” as she tightens around him, and she’s coming again.

“Oh my God, Tiger,” she rasps as he withdraws his fingers. “So good.”

“Can I—” his mouth is dry. “Can I be inside you, next time?”

“You fucking better,” she tells him, and he knows she’s back to herself again.

“How do you wanna do it, baby?” he asks .

“I wanna see your face when you come,” she tells him. He nods, and positions her on her back, with a pillow under her hips. He doesn’t plunge right in, though he feels like he’s about to fucking implode if his cock doesn’t get some relief soon.  They fall together, kissing and touching, and Peter feels like he’s floating. MJ scrapes her nails down his back and he moans, inadvertently grinding against her hip.  She grinds back against him, and he’s tempted to just rut against her until he comes. Instead, he takes it as a sign she’s ready to go, and he finally peels out of his jeans and boxers and positions himself.

“Ready?” he asks, and she says, “Go, Tiger.”

He slides in easily, and for a second they just breathe together before Peter has the presence of mind to pull out and push back in. He sets a slow, even rhythm, until MJ whines, “Peter. Harder.”

He pushes into her harder, faster, knowing he’s going to come soon, and he’s going to take her with him if he can. Her hips meet every one of his thrusts perfectly. He groans and snakes a hand to her clit, working the nub back and forth with his thumb.  She clenches around him, and he chokes out, “Baby, I’m close.”

She does it again. “So’m I. C’mon, tiger, _make me come.”_

He’s desperate to let go, but he won’t come before she does. So he presses harder, thrusts faster, and reaches around her to push her closer to him so he can go deeper.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, rolling her hips down. “Yeah, that’s it, oh, God.”

“You’re gorgeous,” he pants, “Beautiful and smart and funny and _perfect._ You know that, baby? Do you?”

“Peter,” she moans.

“I love you,” he chokes out, and she screams as she comes. He allows himself to come too, crying out her name. When they finish, they’re both glistening with sweat and out of breath.

“Peter, that was amazing,” Mary Jane says. “I’ve never—God, I’ve never come so hard in my life.”

“It was pretty amazing,” he agrees, pressing a quick kiss to her temple and pulling out of her. “Are you tired?”

“Mm, I could nap,” she says agreeably. He pulls her onto her side and snuggles into her back, slinging an arm over her waist.

“I love you,” she whispers.

“I love you too,” he mumbles, sleep rushing towards him. She stays awake a while longer, until their breathing syncs and she falls asleep between the rise and fall of their chests.

-

Mary Jane winces as she takes off her bra. Her boobs are weirdly tender, and she’s got no clue why. She’s never had that happen before her period or anything, and she’s had this bra forever. She flings it over towards their hamper with a grunt just as Peter comes out of the bathroom. He laughs. “You mad at it, babe?”

“I’m all sore in my boobs,” she grumbles. “And I’m tired. And vaguely nauseous. Don’t get too close.”

Peter cocks his head, looking almost puzzled as he climbs into bed. “Night, love,” he says, kissing her cheek quickly.

They turn off the light, but neither of them is asleep quickly.  Finally Peter whispers, “MJ?”

“Hm?”

“Did you have your….you know…yet?”

“You mean my period?” she rolls her eyes. “You’re a biologist, champ, you can say it. I started yesterday. Kind of. Hasn’t gotten regular yet.”

She can almost feel Peter pull a face. “I didn’t need that much detail.”

“You asked,” she grins. She realizes why he’s asking and adds, “Did you think maybe…?”

“I mean, I don’t know,” Peter says quickly. “It’s, you know, possible.”

“I’m just spotting,” MJ says slowly. “Oh, fuck, I really could be. I mean, my boobs haven’t ever been sore before, and I’ve been tired, you know? Also I practically threw up yesterday on set when someone brought in tacos.”

“You could be,” Peter whispers, the excitement permeating into his voice.  “You really could be pregnant.”

“We’ll get a test tomorrow,” she whispers back. “Okay,” he agrees, and they lay in silence about thirty seconds before she says, “Or we could go right now.”

Peter’s out of bed before she finishes the sentence, and she’s not far after.  She throws on a hoodie over her tank top and yoga pants, and curses when she can’t find her black flats. Peter throws on sweatpants and a jacket and hands them to her from where they’re tucked under his side of the bed. He laces up his boots as she grabs her purse and the keys to their leased Honda.

They drive in near silence, the radio so low she can’t even make out the words to the music playing. They don’t speak in words, but every so often their eyes meet and they smile nervously before looking away. Peter drives to the nearest 24 hour Walgreens, and MJ tears inside to grab two home test kits and  as an afterthought while she’s checking out, a Snickers bar. The clerk gives her a bored, polite smile as she checks her out and MJ rushes back to the car. “Let’s go, Tiger,” she urges.

Peter goes.

They’re a flurry of motion until they finds themselves back in front of their bathroom sink, reading the instructions to the first test.  “Okay, so I gotta pee in this cup,” MJ says, “Then we dip the stick, and wait five minutes for it to turn pink or not.”

‘Okay,” Peter exhales, handing her the cup. She raises her eyebrows. “Get outta here or I’ll get nervous and miss the cup or something.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts up his hands and backs out of the bathroom, rolling his eyes.  She looks herself in the eye in the mirror, noticing how wide-eyed she is, before rolling down her pants and peeing into the cup. She dips the strip and goes into the bedroom, where Peter is pacing.

“I dipped the thing,” she says. “Five minutes and counting.”

“What do people do waiting for this stuff?” Peter mutters.

“Uh, we could,” she starts, then laughs. “Hell if I know. Talk, I guess.”

“Hey, MJ, what’s up?” he replies.

“Oh, you know, same old,” she shrugs. “Oh, hey, you know Richard, my costar? He’s getting married and we’re invited to the wedding. His fiancée is working production on the show.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Peter says. They fall silent, and then burst into nervous giggles.

“This is ridiculous!” she huffs out. “I know,” he groans. “How long now?”

“Four minutes.”

“Tell me about your classes,” she suggests. Peter nods and starts talking about his lesson plan for this week, and what he’s putting in Krissy Tran’s college recommendation letter, until suddenly her watch beeps.

“It’s ready,” she says. They aren’t frenzied anymore; they move slowly, hand in hand, trembling with anticipation. They step up to the counter, and MJ lifts the strip up.

It’s pink.

“Peter,” she breathes.

“Oh my God,” he says. It’s like a spell breaks; Peter laughs joyously and scoops her into his arms, twirling her around. “Oh my _God_ , MJ!”

“I’m pregnant!” she screams happily, kissing him with clumsy lips because she’s smiling too much to do it properly.

He lowers her and puts his hand on her stomach. She lays hers over his, and they kiss slowly, tenderly.

“Let’s have some celebratory ice cream,” she suggests.

“At twelve-thirty at night?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m eating for two now. Would you deny your child?” she bats her eyelashes at him.

“Your mom’s a mess,” Peter says half-scoldingly to her flat stomach. Mary Jane knows her baby is just a few cells, and it can’t hear or understand Peter’s words to it, but she’s warming up inside anyway. _Your mom._ Christ, she’s going to be a _mom._   “I’ll check the freezer.”

-

They’re supposed to be in a state of bustling bliss, getting ready for the baby.  And they are, in some ways. They sign up for Lamaze and schedule doctors’ appointments to get sonograms and buy stuff for the baby and pile it in their spare room that may become the baby’s nursery once they have the dreaded Are-We-Staying-Or- Are-We-Going talk. They switch off reading chapters of _What to Expect When You’re Expecting._  They still cuddle on the couch, still make tender love, still laugh and make fun of each other.

But in other ways, they’re the opposite of blissful. They’re increasing distance and aborted fights and slammed doors and frantic, emotional apologies.  Peter’s wearing thin in a way she’d almost forgotten. He’s barely sleeping, working full weeks, going straight from the school to the shelter, and then trying to fuss over her at home. Their sex life has slowed down quite a bit, because Peter can barely keep his eyes open by the time they fall into bed, and she doesn’t feel exactly sexy with her aching feet and  rapidly swelling stomach. He’s ragged and his edges are sharp enough to slice their entire relationship open if she ventures too close.  She’s scared and pissed and lost.  Sometimes she wonders if she’s not where she should be, if there is something fundamentally broken between them.  Maybe she should’ve left when she was still strong enough to recover from the loss, before they created this tie between them. The thought of what they’ll be like by the time the baby is born frightens her. What if, for all their promises, she’s brought a child into a family that never should’ve had one?

She asks him if he’s alright, he says he’s fine. She calls bullshit, he stonewalls her. She screams, he retreats.  As long as they both pretend nothing’s wrong, they can be the same old Peter and MJ, breathlessly, foolishly, optimistically in love.

But pretending isn’t always easy, and Peter’s _hurting_ , and she doesn’t know how to fix it, or if he’ll ever let her try.  She feels the kind of out of control that whispers for her to run, and the kind of fear that tells her she has to stay, and she’s fucking terrified when she stops pretending long enough to allow herself to feel it.

-

 Frequently, Peter finds himself speeding on his way to work. It’s unconscious, until he looks down at the speedometer and realizes he’s going eighty-five in a seventy. Reckless driving. He should slow down. It’s dangerous, and MJ will be pissed if he gets a ticket.

He doesn’t slow down. There’s something hissing in his head that it doesn’t matter what happens to him, either way.  

MJ and the baby, he reminds himself, and makes himself slow down to seventy-five.

One Saturday, he gets up early and looks at motorcycles in a used car lot. He had one in New York, and loved zipping through traffic on it, MJ in tow, squeezing his waist and urging him to speed up. He smiles at the memory, then climbs back in his car. Impractical, unsafe, for a family. He closes his eyes, remembering the rush of recklessness, before he starts his car and goes to pick up milk and chocolate and pickles and whatever else MJ wrote on the list with varying amounts of exclamation marks to show what she’s currently craving.

He starts drinking more. He’s never been much for alcohol, just because his powers make it difficult for him to get drunk quickly. But on nights when MJ’s long been asleep, curled into herself with her arms over her stomach, and he’s been staring at the ceiling half-afraid to sleep and half-exhausted, having a few will take the edge off. That is, until he actually falls asleep, when his dreams bleed vivid colors and make his ears ring with all their noise.

Logically, he knows the way to fix whatever he’s destroyed is to tell her the truth and deal with the fallout, but logic doesn’t do much to soothe the thought, _and what will stop her from packing her bags and never seeing you again?_  He knows he can’t survive losing her and the baby.

So he works, volunteers, shops, drinks, dreams, his new routine, and tries to not think about the superhero itching to strike again. He needs to fight a different fight now. He chose this life, and he’ll live it if it kills him.

-

They’re having the same damn fight again. The script changes slightly, but the scene is always the same: Peter (defensive), MJ (furious), a flurry of attack and avoidance until someone stalks off.  

“Peter, you need to let yourself just take a breath,” she’s saying as she’s unloads the dishwasher. Peter takes the dishes as she dries them off and puts them away in their nooks inside the cabinets.

“Are we really doing this again?” he sighs, shutting the silverware drawer a little too forcefully. “All this stress can’t be good for the baby.”

“Don’t try and bring me into this. When’s last time you did something just for you?” MJ asks pointedly.

“The shelter, that’s my me time,” he argues.

“That’s not just for you, ass,” she snaps. “I mean like going out with friends, watching a movie you like, taking a damn bath.”

Peter smiles, a dangerously fragile smile. “Being here is just for me,” he says. _God knows he’s paid for it_ , he thinks. He steels himself for her rebuttal, the argument he will have to refute.

Mary Jane opens her mouth to lay into him, but just can’t find the energy. “Peter, we’re having a kid. Get your fucking shit together, whatever you need to do. I can’t—” her voice breaks. “You’re really scaring me.”  She shuts the empty dishwasher and goes into their room to crawl in bed. She sleeps fitfully, waking up when Peter gets in bed a few hours later. He wraps an arm around her slowly, like he thinks she might push him away. Neither of them says a word.

-

Peter falls asleep at dinner. She doesn’t realize it until she’s waiting for his laugh at the end of a funny story she just told about her costar, and when it doesn’t come, she looks up to see his face cradled in his hands, his eyes shut. He’s dangerously close to falling into what’s left of his mashed potatoes.

Peter is a tall guy, well-built. MJ loves when he picks her up and carries her easily in his arms; secretly she likes how she can tuck her head to fit into the hollow under his arm neatly when they stand together. But now, like this, Peter just looks _small._ Like a sick kid fighting off the flu. She just stares at him, and tears come into her eyes. He’s falling apart, she’s falling apart, everything is crashing to the fucking ground, and they have a kid coming. The baby shifts inside her, and she breathes in, feeling her throat scratch. “What am I gonna do?” she whispers to her stomach.

Of course, there’s no answer. So she stands up and cleans the dinner dishes as quietly as possible. She starts the dishwasher and puts the leftovers in the fridge before she shakes Peter’s shoulder. He startles, his eyes wide and confused. “Huh?”

“Just go to bed, Pete,” she says. “C’mon.” She offers him her hand and pulls him into their room, setting him on the bed like a discarded stuffed animal. She unbuttons his jeans and yanks them off. Peter half-heartedly waggles his eyebrows at her, but she doesn’t even acknowledge the implication because she knows Peter would crash before he even got inside her. She pulls back their covers and gestures to the pillows. “Sleep, sweetheart,” she says, kissing his temple.

“Okay,” he yawns, climbing into bed and nestling into the sheets. She turns the light out as she leaves, wishing she thought God would answer if she prayed for help.  She’s always handled everything by herself, but she’s not sure she’s enough anymore.

-

Peter won’t go to therapy, and MJ ends up at an office on a whim. She makes an appointment with Dr. Theresa Garam completely randomly.  She’s pretty sure you’re supposed to research your therapists’ degrees and approaches and shit like that, but she was just the first appointment available. Theresa is nice, though. She feels safe.

“Tell me about your husband,” she says, clicking her pen.

“Peter is…” MJ pauses, smiling. “I love him a lot. He’s a genius—he teaches Biology, but he could be a Nobel Prize winner if he worked at it. He’s so kind and selfless. Kind of annoying how much, actually. He’s—kind of why I’m here, I guess.” 

“Are you having problems?”

“Sort of. We fight more than we want, and not to sound like a bitch, but a lot of it comes back to Peter.”

“Does he initiate the arguments?”

“Not really. It’s mostly me,” she admits.

“Then why do you say it comes back to him?”

“Peter’s…there’s something wrong. For a while, he’s had these nightmares and he has problems sleeping. He’s so tired and on edge. He’s working himself to the bone doing volunteer work and being with me and working. Whenever I try to get him to fucking talk about any of it, he shuts down, and we fight.”

She writes something down.  “And is this behavior new?”

MJ hesitates. “I mean, it hasn’t come up in years.”

“But something similar has happened before?”

“Yeah. I met Peter back in college. He was always tired and overwhelmed and late for everything back then. We dated casually, but then he started going out with a friend of ours, and I was dating someone else too. But she died.”

“And how did that affect you both?”

“Peter was devastated, of course. He adored Gwen. And I—she was my best friend. We both still miss her.” MJ sighs. “But it also brought us closer.”

“Tell me about that.”

“It’s weird how it worked out,” Mary Jane muses. “I went over to see him the night she died, and he told me to get out because I wouldn’t care if my own mother died.”

Theresa notices her posture stiffening and immediately comments, “That must have been very painful to hear.”

“Oh, yeah, it was,” she says. “Peter didn’t know, but uh, my mom died when I was in high school, and it was…it was hard.” She swallows. “So, I was about to leave, because, well, that’s what I did back then. But then I decided I needed to stay with him, and things kinda changed after that.”

“Is that when your relationship resumed?”

“Yes, we started dating after a few months. At first, we were just really close friends, but eventually, we realized we wanted more.  We dated for three years before—” MJ frowns. “Well, I told you how he was back then. Shitty boyfriend material, but I loved him, so I stuck around. Finally, I got sick of it because he missed our anniversary. I was all packed to move out, and he begged me to stay and promised he would change. And he did.”

“Until recently.”

“Yes,” she confirms. “I don’t know what’s wrong; he won’t talk about it.”

Theresa leans forward. “So he shuts down. How do you react to that?”

“Usually, I just let him stew in it. Yelling doesn’t help, and I can’t make him talk, right?”

“No, that’s his choice. How do the two of you reconcile?”

“He usually apologizes first, then I say I’m sorry and he can always talk to me, and he says he knows, and then we—” MJ blushes. “Honestly, doc, then we make out for a while.”

Theresa laughs. “That’s a bad thing. However, it sounds like you and Peter never actually confront the root of the problem. That’s not such a good thing.”

“Okay, what do I do?” Mary Jane says.

Theresa glances down at her clipboard. “I can’t judge Peter as well as I would like, but I think while he may be initially resistant to your questions, you shouldn’t let the topic go. You shouldn’t push him per se, but be firm. I suggest getting him in a comfortable and familiar environment before asking, and trying to remain calm.”

MJ nods. “What if he gets angry?” she asks more quietly than she meant to.

Theresa studied her with an inscrutable glance. “Mary Jane, couples can be angry with each other for periods of time without it being an inherently dangerous thing.”

“I mean, I know people get mad,” she answers, a little pissed at the implications lurking in Theresa’s voice.

“It sounds to me you and Peter both dislike confrontation and make up quickly to avoid unpleasant conversations, not because the fight is done,” Theresa says. “Do you know why that might be?”

“I can’t speak for Peter,” she says shortly.

“But you can speak for you.”

MJ looks at the inspirational art on the walls, avoiding Theresa’s eye.  When she finally looks back, she’s looking at her with a sympathetic, patient face.

“I—” MJ feels the familiar fear bubbling in her throat. “I, uh. My dad was abusive. He never hit me or my sister,” she hastens to add.

“Physical abuse isn’t all abuse,” Theresa says softly.

“He wanted to be a great writer,” MJ begins. “But then my mom got pregnant, and he had to get an office job, and he hated it. I guess he blamed her. I remember him being a kind man when I was little. I guess it got to be too much.  He started drinking a lot, and he was mean when he drank. He yelled at me and Gayle for being loud or fighting or whatever else we’d done to piss him off that night.  He yelled at Mom all the time, he called her names, and he’d throw things at her on really bad nights. Sometimes, he hit her, but she always said she fell or something. Like I didn’t know the truth. Then one day, he went to slap Gayle, and that was finally it for Mom. She took us both and we left. We bounced around between relatives before we finally ended up in Queens with my Aunt Anna. But my mom got sick and died not long after that.” MJ lets out a ragged breath, and Theresa hands her a tissue. “I haven’t seen my dad in years, I don’t even know where he is, but I—people yelling, I don’t like it. Peter almost never yells, even when he’s really mad, because he knows how I feel about that.”

“Thank you for telling me that,” Theresa says. “Mary Jane, completely outside of you and your husband’s problems, I think you need to talk some of this out. I’d like you to come back and see me once every two weeks, and I’ll try to help.”

MJ sinks lower into the couch, looking back at the posters again. _Take it day by day,_ one reads. “Okay,” she says at last.

-

MJ’s never believed she needed anyone’s help but her own.  Her sister Gayle has been seeing a shrink for a while, and she swears it’s the most healing thing you could do.  “You should try it, M,” Gayle had suggested the last time they spoke in their obligatory monthly call. “Maybe,” she’d said, and promptly changed the subject.

Yet here she is. Once every two weeks, she finds herself in the lobby, waiting for Theresa to come out and say “Come on back, Mary Jane,” with a smile.

She cries every damn time, and Theresa always hands her a tissue silently. She asks her probing questions about every bad memory MJ’s done a damn good job of repressing for years, ranging from her childhood to adolescence to her current relationship with Peter. Theresa hmms a lot, scribbling notes.

“You said you were a leaver before. What does that mean?”

“I was flighty as hell when I was younger. I was all good times and good vibes. It got heavy, I ditched. I never had a serious boyfriend before Peter, always broke up with them when they started talking milestones.”

“But you committed to Peter?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t always easy.”

“What did you say the first time Peter told you he loved you?”

MJ blinks. “I jumped him. Show rather than say, I guess.”

“When did you say it back?”

“Eventually,” she defends.  “It took a while.”

“Were you eager to move in with Peter?”

“He actually moved in with me,” she chuckles. “My apartment sucked, but his was actually worse.”

Theresa cocks her head like this is incredibly significant, then asks, “Did Peter propose more than once?”

“No, I said yes first time around,” MJ says, narrowing her eyes.

“With no reservations? Yes, right off the bat?”

“No,” she admits. “I think the first thing I said was ‘I’m not the marrying kind.’”

Theresa nods like she’s confirmed something vital.

“So?” she replies, irritated.

“Mary Jane, I don’t wish to be insensitive, but your childhood was very difficult, and that tends to impact adult behavior.  Despite your recent difficulties, I think Peter was a very positive influence on you.  When you were younger, you deflected serious issues to avoid being ‘trapped’ I think you said? The patterns of your behavior suggest a deep fear of abandonment and a self-protective instinct. Think—do you not like fighting with Peter because you believe he will leave you?”

“What kind of question is that?” she demands.

Theresa holds her hands up. “There is no shame in someone with your background feeling afraid to be left behind.”

“What do you mean, my pattern of behavior?” she shoots back.

“Your refusal to settle down with a serious boyfriend, your reticence to fully commit to Peter, even though you loved him deeply—“

“Yes, okay!” she shouts. “I’m scared he’ll leave me sometimes! Okay? Are you happy?”

“Okay,” Theresa soothes. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s dumb,” she mutters.

“I doubt that.”

“I…I grew up white trash, moving around all the time, pretty enough that the girls didn’t like me and the guy thought I was easy. My dad’s a drunk, my mom was messed up, my sister barely talks to me.  Peter deserves someone as good as he is, and I—there’s something in me that’s not….” She trails off, but Theresa fixes her with an unwavering gaze. “Pretty,” she finishes in a small voice. Mary Jane has always been pretty, has spent her life being told she’s beautiful and gorgeous, but she knows that most people don’t see more than her face. There is something dark and ugly lurking under her skin, playing hide and seek and yelling “ready or not, here I come,” precisely when she least wants to see it.

“Peter clearly loves you very much, and we all have darkness in us,” Theresa says. “You might not believe me right now, but you can stop letting these beliefs control you. I can help, but it’ll come down to you. You have to really work at it. When you believe you’re worth fighting for, you’ll be able to effective communicate with Peter without being afraid of his reaction.”

“Okay,” is all she can say, but it’s enough.

Two months pass, and Theresa listens to her talk and gives her homework. Do something for yourself today. Practice these conflicts scenarios with me until they don’t make you anxious. Say a compliment to yourself in the mirror every day. It’s all little stuff, stuff that makes her feel ridiculous until she realizes the dumb exercises are _helping._ It’s easier to believe Peter when he compliments her, easier to believe she’ll be a good mother.

Some homework assignments are harder. She has her write a letter to her mom, and it’s half full of “I miss you” and half full of “How could you?”  She has her schedule a visit with Gayle, who she hasn’t seen in years. In session, she asks what MJ would say to her father if he were sitting in the chair behind her, and she says, “I’d tell the bastard to walk out the door and never speak to me again.”

“We can’t take that way out,” Theresa says firmly.

She sighs, pushing her hair back. “Fine. I’d ask if he’s stopped drinking. He’d tell me he has, and I’d know he’s lying.”

“Okay, pretend you’ve confronted him about lying. What would he say?”

“Honestly, he’d probably call me a smug little bitch,” MJ scoffs.

“Let’s say he did. How would you reply?”

MJ gnaws her lip. She’d leave, walk right out. But Theresa doesn’t want that.

“I’d say…I’d say that I’m not, and that I don’t have to listen to his bullshit.”

Theresa smiles, pleased. “And why don’t you have to listen to him?”

“Because he’s not anything to me. Because I deserve respect,” MJ says, her voice getting stronger with each word.

“Good work,” Theresa beams. “I think we can move beyond you personally, and start discussing how to help you and Peter resolve your conflicts. “

MJ goes home the night after her last session to Peter and his slightly overcooked spaghetti, and she says calmly, “I’m not going to fight with you anymore, Peter. This is your battle, but I’m on your side. Come to me when you’re ready to deal with it.”

Peter looks confused. “MJ? You okay?”

She takes a bite of her food. “Yeah, I am. I’m great.”

Everything isn’t magically fixed, but MJ feels less out of control, less cornered, less angry. And Peter’s still suffering, and she’s still worried, but she’s Mary Jane Watson-Parker and she’ll figure everything out. She won’t lose her husband to his demons. She’ll save him from them. She knows she can.


	5. A Revelation, Some Kind of Resolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we reach the climax. I finally got to write some Green Goblin, aka my favorite villain, and I think his monologue might be my favorite thing in the entire fic. This was originally two chapters, then I realized how lopsidedly I had divided them. I hope you enjoy! The chapter title comes from "No Light, No Light" by Florence and the Machine. 

Peter knows from the New York papers that the Goblin is escalating, but he tries not to dwell the kill count.

Until the Goblin forces him to pay attention.

" _Peter!"_ Mary Jane cries from another room. His heart seems to ice in place, mid-beat, and he drops the lab report he was grading. _"Come here! Now!"_

He skids into the living room, following her voice. Is she being attacked? Is something wrong with the baby?

"What's wrong?"

She turns to him, and his first thought is, _thank God, she's fine._ Then he notices her pale face, her wide eyes, the way she's curved her hands protectively over her round stomach. They're less than three months from the due date.

"Look," she whispers, pointing at the TV. He looks.

The Green Goblin is sitting at the Channel 6 news desk. There is a pool of blood at his elbow, and a sickening grin on his face.

Peter feels like he's going to throw up as the Goblin starts laughing.

"Helllllo, New York!" He trills. "Good morning, Vietnam!" He cackles again, and stops abruptly, spinning a circle once in the chair. " _So_ sorry to report the majority of your usual new staff is dead at my feet. Your good cameraman has graciously agreed to film this very important news announcement to buy a few more precious minutes of his pathetic life. As flattering as the camera is on me, let's not keep you maggots in suspense, eh?

"As we all know, Spider-Man reportedly killed me nearly three years ago to the day. He almost did, mind. He thought so, as his injured body flew away. And then he disappeared. Left you ungrateful fools to write editorials speculating on where he flew to and to have no one to blame but yourselves for a climbing crime rate, not that it ever occurred to you what good the bug did in his time. Yes, I can admit that he did good in his time, though I detest him more than any of you. See, I am not like Spider-Man, flawed in my delivery and pure in my heart. No, my methods are as ruthless as reported, and my heart—well, the Goblin has no need for a heart.

"But I survived our last tango, and healed, with only the thought of revenge and power sustaining me. I thought the moment the first blast hit this cesspool, the wall-crawler would rush to me. I attacked and maimed and killed, and still, my old nemesis hid from me. I began to wonder if our duel had truly killed him. Such a victory would be hollow.

"But our intimate history tells me innately that the web-slinger lives. That he has been driven to hide, tired of being ensnared in his own web. Foolishly, the bug believes he can simply relinquish his destiny. Oh, Spider-Man," The Goblin tsks, shaking his head. "My poor little insect, destiny is a weighty thing. Even now, it can crush you. It will. This I have sworn, and still swear.

"I am sick of waiting for you, Spider-Man. This city of cockroaches has no entertainment for me. To simply kill without any challenge is monotonous. Remember the old days, Spider-Man? How we wrestled in an endless chess game? You miss it, don't you, my boy? Your little hero's heart still bleeds for justice? We are who we choose to be, wall-crawler. You know this. It weighs on you.

"You will choose, Spider-Man. I will kill this entire city if I must. Remember your pretty little wife and your pretty little dreams. Remember that we are aware of the truths no one else knows, and remember I can destroy everything you've ever loved. _I will kill everyone you ever met!_ _"_ he shouts. "Do not think you can shift this responsibility to anyone else. Your little superhero friends don't know me so well as you, do they? You were mine from the first. You will come back to finish the chess game. This time, it will end for good. Don't keep me waiting, Spider-Man."

The screen cuts to black, static the only sound.

Peter feels like he can't breathe. What was he thinking, believing that it could ever be done? That it could be someone else's responsibility?

Mary Jane is crying, he realizes, silent tears slipping down her face. She's been weepy lately, hormones and all, but this time, she's got one hell of a reason.

His wife and baby are danger. His aunt is in danger. His friends, and the Bugle and its staff, and his entire city are at the brink of destruction.

He closes his eyes.

 _With great power comes great responsibility,_ Uncle Ben reminds him, and this time, Peter knows he can't shut the words out.

"Mary Jane," he says quietly. He doesn't allow his voice to tremble. Her eyes snap from the empty screen to him.

"I have to tell you something," he says, feeling a pang in his stomach as his grim tone registers on her frightened face. "Please remember that I love you."

* * *

 "Peter?" she asks, voice unsteady, looking at him with piercing eyes.

He swallows and says, "You should sit down."

Her eyes narrow at him. "Fine." She sits. He opens his mouth to talk, but only finds himself pacing. He should've told her years ago, there's too much to say now. But he was so afraid she wouldn't react well—

"Why don't _you_ sit down?" she adds, annoyed.

He sits beside her. She frowns at him. "Tell me what's wrong," she says, her voice inviting no challenge. This time, he's not going to offer one.

"I'll tell you," he says. "Promise you'll let me finish before you say anything, okay?"

"I—I promise," she says slowly, furrowing her brows.

"MJ," Peter says, taking a deep breath. "I'm Spider-Man."

Mary Jane stares at him. "What?"

"I'm Spider-Man. Or, I was," he corrects.

"Was?" she echoes. "What—?" Her mind is screaming that it can't be true, that she would've known, he would've told her, that her mild-mannered Peter can't be a superhero, when rushes of memories start to fall into place.

The broken dates to take photos. Constantly running out right before Spidey came up. How she never saw them in the same room. Strange injuries. How Spider-Man disappeared right when Peter's transformation happened. The fear of the news. The move to LA. The theme of the nightmares.

How did she never see it before?

"Holy shit," she breathes out. The baby gives a ferocious kick, and she winces.

"Not now, honey, Mommy and Daddy are talking," Peter murmurs to her stomach. She wants to smile, but she's lost all control of her face.

"You're Spider-Man," she says in disbelief. "Tiger. Wow. Okay. Give me a second to process. "

Peter nods, looking almost sheepish.

"Holy shit!" she exclaims. "I should've known….it all fits…Jesus! All this time? All the time I've known you, you were Spider-Man?"

He nods. "I was bitten by a radioactive spider in a lab when I was fifteen," Peter says. "Suddenly, I was strong and fast, muscled, and I didn't need glasses. I could climb walls and could feel a blow coming before it happened. I was fifteen and stupid, so I used my powers to get TV publicity. And one day, when I was full of arrogance, I ignored the chance to stop a thief. I went home that night, and the same man had shot and killed Uncle Ben." His eyes are full of tears as they meet her gaze. "I never had the courage to tell you that it was my fault."

"Peter," she begins, grabbing his wrist. "You can't—"

He smiles wryly. "I can. I do." He kneads at his temple. "That night, I swore I would always use my powers to protect people. I became Spider-Man, the superhero. My life got infinitely weirder and infinitely harder.

"I was still in high school when the Green Goblin started his career. We fought again and again, and he discovered my secret identity and told me his. He was Norman Osborn."

"Harry's father?" MJ sputters. She ate dinner with the man, for God's sake! It's hell of a lot easier to believe Peter's a hero than to believe Norman Osborn's a villain. He was a misogynistic jackass, and a shit parent, but a mass murderer she wouldn't have pinned him as.

"One of the last times we fought, he lost his powers, and he was just a normal man who didn't know who Spider-Man was. I let him go home safe because of that. But when Harry had his breakdown, his dad's personality started splitting again. For months, it was in and out, and I never knew when I was safe."

"So that's why the Goblin took us?" MJ whispers. "We thought it was random—"

Peter's face is ashamed. "No. It was because he wanted to hurt me." Peter looks away, clenching his fists, and MJ knows what comes next.

"He threw Gwen off the bridge because I loved her." He swallows. "I thought I killed the bastard that night. And I was still Spider-Man, and then, there was you." He smiles at her, but his eyes are sad. "And I loved you so much, being Spider-Man was harder than ever because it meant hurting you all the time and never being able to tell you why."

"You could've told me," MJ objects, feeling a righteous thrum of anger that dims at the guilty look on his face. "I would've understood," she promises, almost certain she's telling the truth.

"I was afraid you'd hate me," Peter tells her. "I couldn't risk losing you.

"The Goblin popped up again three years ago, and it was a constant hide and seek through the city. Fights that left us both exhausted but alive. That night," he continues, and she knows exactly what night he means, "The Goblin and I were tangling. That's why I was so late, not that I could tell you that. I walked in, ready to worm my way back into your good graces, and there you were with your suitcases." He shakes his head. "That was it. I was already sick of being Spidey, being hated and lonely, barely able to handle my regular life. And I was going to lose you forever if I didn't give it up. So after you went to Anna's, I fought the Goblin one last time. I thought it was done, MJ. But it's not, and the Goblin's right. I can't ignore my responsibility anymore."

He meets her eyes, resigned, afraid, but firm.

Her mind is racing. Peter was Spider-Man. Peter lied to her. Peter has saved her life, in costume and out. Peter hid things from her. Peter is asking her permission. Would he have ever told her the truth without the Goblin's intervention? _The Goblin._ The Goblin will come for her baby, and hell if she'll let that happen. She loves this man. This is why he's been so unhappy. It wasn't something innate in their relationship, or something buried under either of their skins. Peter loves her. _He did this for her._

She takes a deep breath. "Well," she murmurs, then looks up and catches his eye. "Go get 'em, Tiger."

The look on is his face is nothing short of astonished.

"Mary Jane?" he asks faintly. "You're- alright with this?"

"Peter, the Goblin just threatened our and our child's lives. If you don't take him down, who will?" She stands up, offering him her hand. "Don't get me wrong, you are going to be sucking up to me for possibly years to make up for being a fucking liar, but now is not the time to kick your ass. C'mon. We need to get to New York as soon as possible. He won't wait long."

He grabs her hand and pulls her into a fierce kiss.

"I love you, Mary Jane Watson-Parker," he says. "You are the most extraordinary person I have ever met."

"Says the superhero," she rolls her eyes. "Go get us the quickest flight out of here; I'll pack some bags and call Aunt May and ask her to visit Anna in Florida to get her out of danger. Let's go."

* * *

 It's two A.M. and they'll be landing in New York in just minutes. She and Peter are both awake, have been the entire flight. Everyone around them is deep asleep. They haven't said much, but it hangs in the air between them like their intertwined hands.

"Peter," MJ says quietly.

"Yeah, honey?" he turns to her from where he's been gazing out the window.

"So giving it up," MJ says. "That was why? The dreams, all that time at the shelter, the clippings?"

He starts. "You knew about those?"

She nods. "Found them looking for tax information."

"Why didn't you ask me about them? Not that I would've had a particularly good explanation."

"I was scared of what you'd say," she answers. "I thought…I don't know what I thought."

"You have to understand, MJ, I did it for us," he says. "I know it hasn't been easy lately. I'm so sorry for that. Being Spider-Man was so much a part of me for so long. I can't explain how guilty I felt, knowing that I chose my own happiness over saving hundreds of people. Every mugging, every murder in New York felt like it was my fault. But I couldn't stand losing you. The two sides of me were at war all the time, and it only got worse."

"I want you to know, before we get there and everything is crazy, that I love you," she says. "And that I will stay with you. No matter what."

"No matter what?" he asks, voice hopeful but afraid. She unbuckles her seat and straddles his lap, reaching for his face and looking directly in his eyes. "Yes." She kisses him and pulls away only to clarify, "That doesn't give you a free pass to treat me like shit. I meant what I said back then, Peter. I was better than that. But I wish you had given me a chance to understand. I'll understand why you break dates if Doc Ock is in town. I won't get mad if you miss dinner if you call me and explain why. You just have to be there for me and our family when we really need you. "

"It might be dangerous for you," Peter says. "There are always Green Goblins."

"Let me worry about that," she returns fiercely. "I know you will protect us. And I'll protect you. I'll support you being Spider-Man if you're Peter, too."

He crushes his mouth to hers, breathes, "Deal," and they make out like teenagers until the fasten seat belt light comes on and she has to scramble back in her seat before any flight attendants yell at them.

* * *

They take a cab from LaGuardia to Forest Hills. Peter pulls out the key to Aunt May's house he _still_ keeps on the ring, after all this time—she remembers pointing that out during a fight and Peter getting defensive—and lets them in. The house is eerily the same, actually—she almost expects May to come puttering out of the kitchen in her bathrobe, asking if they'd like something to eat.

Peter looks around, breathing in sharply. "Okay. I have to—I have to get my spare suit."

"Is it here?" she frowns.

"It's my oldest one, from back in high school. It got a little battered, so I redesigned the material. This will work though."

"What happened to the one you were—?"

"Threw it in the trash before I could change my mind," Peter says. "Some garbage collector was very happy, sold it to JJJ. My friends at the Bugle say he's got it framed and talks to it sometimes."

Mary Jane can't help but laugh, and it echoes through the empty house. Peter grins.

"Hey," she says suddenly. "Why don't you just take that one from his office?"

Peter looks surprised, then mischief comes into his eyes. "Smart girl. You coming with?"

She slings her arm around his neck. "Oh, you know it. I'll play lookout."

MJ's strangely excited to see Peter in action as a Spider-Man. She suspects it's going to become a turn-on, especially once he gets all suited up. She always had a little bit of a crush on Spider-Man, which Peter use to tease her for. It's crazy to think that all that time, _Peter_ was the one swinging around New York and tangling with criminals.

They stroll casually into the alley beside the Bugle. "How are we doing this, ace?" MJ asks.

"I'm going to climb up the wall and break through the window, then I'll let you in."  
"Can I climb with you?" she asks hopefully.

"Like, on my back?"

"Sure, why not?"

"The fact you're super pregnant?"

She looks down at her distended stomach. "Ugh. This thing is ruining my life."  
"Okay, over dramatic," he laughs. "I'll get you in a minute." With that, Peter just starts fucking climbing the wall like—well, a spider.

"That's really awesome," she calls to him. He chuckles. "You like this, you'll love it when I take you out web-slinging."

"I'm holding you to that," she says.

"I expect nothing less," he calls back, kicking the window in and sliding into the building. He sticks his head back out and calls down, "Go around front, I'll lift the security system."

The door opens easily, and she takes the elevator upstairs to where Peter is leaning against the Bugle's door.

"Ready to commit larceny?" he asks, grinning. She takes his arms and says, "Always!"

It's weird seeing the Bugle's newsroom dark and silent. Every time she's ever been here, Jonah's been shouting about deadlines and Robbie's been running around fixing everyone's mess-ups last second, and when Betty was here, she was fielding calls from Jonah's wife and placating advertisers. She wonders what's changed in the past few years since Peter worked here.

They creep through the office, finally slipping into the door marked EDITOR-IN-CHIEF. Peter bursts out laughing, pointing at the wall above JJJ's desk. "He really did frame it," he wheezes. She giggles.

Peter flicks his wrist and cracks the glass over his old suit with his webbing, then sends another strand to grab them and pull the garments into his hands.

"Hello, old friend," he says, stroking his suit with his fingers.

"You really missed it, didn't you?" she says. "Being Spider-Man, I mean."

"Parts of it, yeah," he admits.

"Put it on, Spidey," she tells him, nudging him with her shoulder.

"First let me write a little note for JJJ," he smirks, taking a stack of post-its and a black marker in hand. He sticks a note on the shattered glass that reads, COURTESY, YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD SPIDER-MAN.

Mary Jane laughs, loud and clear, and Peter grins as he starts to slip into his alter-ego's suit.

He slips on the mask, and she can instantly see the change in his body language. He stands taller, poised to spring, to fight. He's not Peter Parker now; now, he's Spider-Man. She looks at him, a little awed.

"Now what?" she asks. He shrugs. "Gotta find a way to send Gobby the message I'm back."

Mary Jane opens her mouth, then grimaces, shaking her head. Of course, Peter notices. "What?"

"Maybe you should go on air too," she says hesitantly.

He doesn't say anything for a moment, and with the mask on, she can't see his face to follow his thought processes.

"God, it seems coarse, but it's quick," he says at last. "The sooner we end this, the better. Let's go back to Forest Hills. Tomorrow morning I have to break into a TV station."


	6. The Failures of the Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some special folks stop by in this chapter! I hope you're enjoying and Monday's update will be a big one. This week's chapter title is from the Airborne Toxic Event's "The Graveyard Near The House." Fun fact- this was almost the title of the whole story.

Mary Jane thought breaking into a TV station might be more difficult than it was. They took the subway into the city and walked a few blocks to the station. Peter was prepared to web up the walls, but turns out—

"Unlocked," Mary Jane confirms, opening the side doors. Peter blinks. "Well, that's convenient."

The building is eerily silent inside. Mary Jane can feel the spirit of the bustle that should exist here, during the time TV crews would usually be setting up, interns would be fetching coffee, and anchors would be doing vocal exercises. The noise of the elevator seems harsh in the quiet as they glide up to their destination.

Peter puts on his suit as MJ fiddles with the camera. Peter correctly guessed that in the wake of the tragedy here, all the equipment was merely powered down, not dismantled. A few switches in the fuse box, and the studio is fully functional, just empty. MJ took a few filmography courses in college, so she's got a rough idea of how to operate the camera, and once Peter powers up the satellite signals, they're ready to broadcast. Peter sits behind the news desk, and nods to MJ, who starts rolling.

"Good morning, New York," Peter says solemnly. "I'm here in Studio 6, where yesterday, the Green Goblin killed thirty people and broadcasted a message to me. First, I'd like to apologize directly to you, the people of this city. I've been selfish. I left being Spider-Man behind, and let the Goblin wreak havoc unchecked. I should have never given up being Spidey, but at the time, it seemed like that was what I had to do. And now coming back is what I have to do. I know that now.

"And now," Peter's voice hardens. "I'd like to address you, Goblin. You're right- my little hero's heart never stopped bleeding for justice, and I can't outrun my destiny. And you're right that this will be our last fight. Prepare yourself, Goblin. Let's meet back on our old dueling ground—the warehouse on the waterfront where I learned who you truly are, at sundown. I'll see you then."

MJ cuts the camera off and rushes to Peter, who is breathing harshly.

"Babe?" she asks carefully.

"I'm okay," he sighs. "Just…if I look, I can still see the bloodstains. God. I should've never—"

"Don't start that," she interrupts. "It's in the past, and you did what you thought you should. We need to focus on what you're _going_ to do."

"You're right," he nods.

"What _we're_ going to do, I should say," she amends.

He cocks his head. "We're?"

"You can't expect me to sit at home and wait it out, can you?"

"Uh…." Evidently that was precisely what he expected.

"Oh, hell no, Pete."

"Mary Jane, you don't need to be in the middle of a battle, especially when you're carrying our child," he argues.

"I'm not asking to go hand-to-hand with the Goblin," she scoffs. "I just want to be nearby, at least."

"No way."

"Fuck that, Peter. You just set the time and place. I'll follow you if I have to."

"For fuck's sake, MJ! How am I supposed to focus if I'm worried about protecting you?"

"Well, don't worry," she snaps. "Just focus."

Suddenly there's a thud of footsteps on the roof above them. They stop arguing immediately and look at each other with horror. Who is here? The Goblin? This quickly?

"Is there time to—"

Peter grabs her and pulls her close. "If I have to, we can go through the window. I'd rather not fly with you this far along, but…"

The doors to the studio open.

"Spider-Man?" a voice calls. MJ looks at Peter, who shakes his head. "Don't know the voice," he murmurs.

A mild-looking man in a suit comes around the corner and smiles as his eyes land on the two of them, frozen and silent. He holsters his gun and calls, "Fury! He's here. With a—friend?" He looks at MJ quizzically. "I didn't want to assume," he adds in a whisper.

"The rest of you, stay out here," an authoritative voice says, out of sight. "No jumping the gun. Let me and Coulson handle this one."

A black man with an eye patch and a long black coat strides in, stopping next to the other man.

"I believe introductions are in order," the first man says kindly. "I'm Agent Phil Coulson, of the Strategic Homeland Intervention and Logistics Division. This is—"

"Agent Nick Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D. Director," The man chimes in.

"How…?" Peter asks.

"We've been monitoring this place. We predicted you'd come here, Spider-Man. And we hoped to speak with you," Coulson says. "Oh, I'm sorry, you are, Miss…?"

"Mary Jane Watson," she says, dumbfounded, only just remembering not to tack on the "Parker."

"Ah, so this must be the wife!" Coulson beams. "Lovely to meet you. And aren't you just glowing, too."

"Thank you," she manages.

"We've stopped by to, uh, check in," Coulson says, glancing at Fury.

"We understand you're going after the Green Goblin?" Fury says.

"Yes," Peter says slowly.

"Our teams have been trying to catch up to him, but—" Fury shakes his head. "It's been problematic. Obviously."

"We're glad to see you back," Coulson adds.

"Unfortunately, we've realized that our non-powered agents won't be helpful to you—in fact they may prove a liability. Our powered agents are occupied. So we can offer you sanctuary, and any tech we have. We want you to kill the son of a bitch," Fury says.

"And after this is finished, we'd like you to consider joining one of our operative teams," Coulson says. "We protect our own. And their families," he adds, smiling at Mary Jane.

"Is there anything we can do?" Fury asks. Mary Jane answers before Peter can dismiss them.

"Can you provide me a safe place to watch the fight? Some tech, so we can stay in touch?"

"MJ, I did not agree to let you be there!"

"Shh, Pe—Spider-Man. Can you?"

"Certainly!" Coulson beams. "Also, Spider-Man, you can trust us with your identity. With all due respect, marriage records aren't so difficult to access. The Goblin did out you a bit, there."

"I appreciate the help," Peter begins. "But…"

"We can isolate your wife in one of our labs," Coulson suggests. "We have a hidden one very close to the warehouse—I believe I have the right place in mind, anyway—but it should pose no risk to have Mary Jane there. She'll be quite safe; the security is excellent. Designed by Dr. Reed Richards himself. As for tech—we'll have camera views of the neighboring streets and it would be no trouble to get your web shooters fitted with a radio so you could keep in contact."

Peter starts to protest; MJ puts her hands on her hips and repeats, "I'll just follow you. Either way."

"Now, I don't know either of you much, but I think your wife seems capable enough to handle this," Fury says, nodding at MJ. She gets the feeling this is quite a complement, coming from this taciturn man.

Peter sighs, rubbing at his mask. "God, fine. Alright."

Mary Jane grins. "When you take that mask off, I'm gonna smooch you a good one."

Coulson chuckles; even Fury cracks a smile.

She turns back to Coulson. "So let's see that lab, huh?"

Fury bids them goodbye in the hall and glides out of view, barking at the agents assembled out of sight to move out and board the helicopter. Coulson asks politely, "Did you fly here, or drive?"

"Uh, we took the subway," MJ answers. Coulson beams. "Oh, good! I'll introduce you to Lola. She's gorgeous."

Coulson drives Lola (which turns out be a red classic, rather than a real girl) to the waterfront, stopping outside a nondescript, run-down warehouse. Peter goes to open the door, which is rusted shut. "It's locked," he starts to say to Coulson, but Coulson is kneeling on the ground. He taps a rotten piece of wood leaning against the side on the building in a set pattern and says softly, "Tahiti 495, level 9, with guests Redbird and Webs. Enter secure defense mode, non-intruder, until further orders."

Panels of the warehouse slide open to reveal a sleek chrome hallway. MJ and Peter exchange astonished looks.

"Fury just put basic profiles in the system for you," Coulson explains, rising off his knees and dusting his suit. "For right now, you're like level 1 agents. I can't show you our secret-secrets yet, but the system will respond to your basic commands, Miss Watson. Come along."

He trots into the hallway, and dumbfounded, Peter and MJ follow. "Okay, okay, door number….11! There. Alright, Miss Watson, your access code will be 52775, which is your birthday—terrible code, I know, but we're in a pinch. We'll reset later."

"No, that's great, thank you," MJ says. "So this is my safe room?"

Coulson punches in his code without even looking and steps in the room. The walls are covered with advanced surveillance equipment and scientific instruments she can't even begin to guess the purpose of. If she could see Peter's face under his mask, she'd bet it be lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Wow," Peter breathes. "This place is amazing!"

"A man of science, Spider-Man?" Coulson grins. "It is amazing. Let me get you all set up. Miss Watson?"

She steps closer. "Yeah?" He punches some buttons, and the cameras on the street blink to life, filling the screens around her with different angles of the same streets. Coulson leans over and punches something in, and the cameras re-angle to the building and alley where Peter's supposed to meet the Goblin. He clicks another button, and the sound comes in. She can hear the waves of the river hitting the piers.

"Now I wrote you a list of shortcuts for the system," he says, pulling an envelope out of his jacket. "But let's record your vocal profiles right quick, and you can just verbalize your commands to the system and it'll do them automatically." He looks apologetically to Peter. "I'll need you to remove the mask over your mouth for clarity, sir."

Peter just peels the entire thing off. "I think I can trust you by now, Coulson." He smiles and sticks out his hand. "I'm Peter Parker."

"Ah," Coulson says happily.

"Now that that's cleared up," MJ chimes in. "My full surname is Watson-Parker."

"Noted," Coulson says, holding up a microphone attached to some sort of black box thing. "Let's start."

The security procedures take a while. Coulson fits a sound chip in Peter's web shooter and synchronizes it to a headset that he then hands to MJ. Then Coulson briefly disappears and comes back with sandwiches and drinks for them. "Kitchen's down the hall," he explains. "Stocked, no special codes to enter, of course."

They have time to spare, so Coulson shows them around the bunker. Peter asks him questions about physics and electromagnetics and God knows what else, and Coulson answers enthusiastically. He also shows MJ how to override the system, if necessary, and how to operate the mainframe.

"This is incredible, really," she says. Coulson nods. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has the best scientists in the world on our side."

Finally, Coulson checks his watch and grimaces. "Well, I have to go," he sighs. "There's a code 344-that is to say, a situation, in Argentina, that I need to go straighten out. Good luck, Mrs. Watson-Parker. Good luck, Mr. Parker. Remember, after this, we hope to hear from you."

Somehow, it lightens Peter's heart to hear such confidence in Coulson's voice. "You will," he says. He sticks out his hand, and Coulson shakes it. Mary Jane kisses his cheek, and Coulson blushes a little before gracefully bowing out. His footsteps fade away quickly, like he was never there.

Peter and Mary Jane spend the rest of their time together talking as lightheartedly as they can, never mentioning the Goblin. They talk about the baby's nursery, and whether it should be green or yellow. They talk about Aunt May, and about Peter's students, and about Mary Jane's career. They talk until Mary Jane leaps onto her husband and kisses him desperately, trying to not let him taste her fear. Time melts away, and all there is PeterandMaryJaneTogether.

The sun gets lower in the sky.

Peter kisses Mary Jane one last time, trying to keep his mind from dwelling on the possibility this could be the last time their lips touch. Peter harbors no illusions about the Goblin's remaining humanity. He intends to kill Spider-Man tonight. He could very well be dead in a few minutes. He can tell Mary Jane is thinking it too from the way her fingers tangle in his hair like she'll never let go.

But she does, and says softly, "You should go outside. It's almost sundown."

Peter strokes her hair once, and nods. "I'll come back," he promises, hoping he can keep it.

"You'd better," she replies shakily, her eyes glossy with tears she won't cry, not his brave MJ.

"I love you," he says.

"I love you too," she says.

They look at each other for an instant, a moment, an hour, a lifetime, before Peter pulls on his mask and swings out the window to the alley across the street.

The sun is sinking low over the water, and it's gorgeous. If only he could really enjoy it, sit on the top of the building with MJ in contented silence.

But he's got a responsibility to fill, and miles to go before he sleeps.

Peter's Spider-Sense tingles, and he turns to see a green dot in the air, coming closer and becoming clearer.

Here comes the Goblin.


	7. But You're a King and I'm Your Lionheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The climatic battle. I hope you enjoy? I'm nervous. 
> 
> This chapter's title is from King and Lionheart by Of Monsters and Men (This was another another alternate title for this story!)

The Goblin glides easily into the alleyway, stopping his hoverboard with the air of someone parking their car in the perfect space.

“Hello, old friend,” The Goblin says pleasantly.

“Gobby,” Peter greets, equally as cordial.

“Let me first extend my congratulations,” The Goblin says, his yellow eyes gleaming madly. “A wedding and a baby on the way all in three years, my, my. Your dear old Aunt must be proud.”

Peter fights back a growl. How dare this monster casually mention the woman he almost killed? The Goblin offers him a cruel, crooked little smile. “The polite thing to do would be to offer your own congratulations to me, Spider-Man.”

“For what, your kill count?” Peter spits out.

The Goblin grins. “Yes, generally people are impressed by it, if terrified.” He adds, “Let me now offer my condolences.”

“For?” Peter subtly moves his wrist so his shooters have a clear shot at the Goblin.

“Your impending demise, of course!” The Goblin cackles, and Peter leaps just as the Goblin starts to propel forward. They crash together, and the battle is on.  Peter sinks into the headspace of Spider-Man, where it’s all sarcastic quips and acrobatic maneuvers and powerful punches to disarm the baddies.  It’s simple here.

_He’s missed this,_ he thinks as he dodges and punches and dances this old familiar dance. He’s missed it, and the Goblin has too, judging by his gleeful taunts and cackles. 

Peter grabs the Goblin by his belt, full of his fun little tricks, and yanks him back from where he’s trying to remount his glider. The momentum makes a few pumpkin blasters tumble out and fall over Peter’s feet. He slams the Goblin into the wall, dazing him, and snags them with his web and slings them haphazardly away. All he needs is a close-range detonation. He doesn’t hear any corresponding booms, so the Goblin must not have them dialed up yet. The Goblin pushes off the wall and slams into Peter, who has to dig his heels in to avoid keeling over. The Goblin’s close enough to reach for his throat and start squeezing; Peter has to kick his legs out from under him to get him to let go.

“Peter! Are you okay?” a tinny voice comes from his microphone.  He does a quick thumbs-up and hopes she can see it through S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cameras.

“Ah, ah, play nice, Gobby,” Peter chides.  His neck throbs, so he kicks the Goblin while he’s still sprawled on the ground.

“But that’s no fun,” The Goblin pouts.  “I prefer to play dirty, you know.” He punctuates his words with a tug to Peter’s ankle that jerks him off balance, then he pushes him over and clambers back on his glider and gets airborne as Peter recovers and tries to catch up.

“I see your wife is nagging you even out here,” The Goblin calls, grinning. “Mine was a right bitch, too.”

“Don’t you dare,” Peter snarls, springing off the building’s wall to jump on the Goblin’s back. The glider staggers under their weight. The Goblin bucks forward, and Peter tumbles off, landing flat on his feet.

“Your wife is a looker though, bug,” The Goblin leers. “And look at that pregnancy glow. Mine was pretty too, but not quite to Miss Mary Jane’s level.”

“Don’t talk about her,” Peter snarls, kicking the Goblin’s hoverboard and knocking him off balance.

The Goblin snarls as he nearly falls, and Peter takes the opportunity to punch the bastard in his stomach as many times as he can. The Goblin returns by grabbing his fist and twisting his wrist back, and Peter cries out. _Fuck._ He can’t do this on only one hand.  They’re too close in ability.

“Too bad that pretty little wife will be raising your mutant alone. That is, if I decide not to kill her after I finish you.” He yanks Peter forward by his injured wrist and hisses the words into his face.  Peter grits his teeth and pulls his body back, yanking the Goblin with him so he stumbles. Peter spins, pulling him off his glider and throwing him to the ground and jumping on top of him.

“No she won’t,” he growls, delivering a blow directly to the Goblin’s face, his rage satisfied by the resulting cry of pain.  “You know why I’m gonna win this one, Gobby? Because I’ve got something to fight for. My home, my girl, and my baby. You’ve only got your twisted revenge mission. Tell me, are you still a man under that suit, or just a ghost?”

The Goblin grins through bloody lips. “Whoever said men weren’t just breathing ghosts?”

“Poetic,” Peter bites out, with a kick to the Goblin’s knee. He hisses and punches Peter’s cheek, and he has to suppress a wince.

“Give up, bug,” The Goblin hisses, seizing Peter’s wrist as he moves to punch him and twisting it back once more.  The Goblin pushes him back, and he hits the asphalt. Peter cries out as the Goblin slams the injured hand to the ground and squeezes his wrist. “Come now, be reasonable.”

“Yes, you’re the voice of reason in my life,” Peter snarks back, using his uninjured hand to grab the Goblin’s shoulder and yank it out of its socket. He howls like a wounded dog. Peter has enough momentum to pummel his ribs, and the Goblin wheezes.

Peter’s almost taken by surprise when the Goblin summons his hoverboard over and nearly slices Peter’s head off. His Spider-Sense only gave him a little edge. The Goblin must’ve been tinkering during his absence.  He barely dodges the blades that slide out of the sides; one nicks his shoulder and he staggers back.

“C’mon Gobby, keep it fair,” he scolds as they dance around each other, trading blows and grunts of pain.

“That would be awfully out of character for me, wouldn’t it?” The Goblin grins.

Peter leaps to avoid a kick and agrees, “Yeah, but can’t fault a guy for trying.”

“Oh, no,” The Goblin says agreeably as he nimbly dances away from Peter’s fists. “I like your persistence, Spider-Man. It makes it more fun to destroy you.”

“Gee, glad to be of service,” Peter mocks, finally landing a punch to the Goblin’s nose.

Peter realizes too late the Goblin’s managed to get them backed up to a wall, and with a sudden movement, the Goblin seizes Peter’s shoulders and slams him into the brick. Peter’s vision sways for a second, and the Goblin starts to lay into him. Peter fights back, but his head is heavy and his hand aches, and the Goblin is gaining on him.  The Goblin pulls him off his feet by his shirt and delivers a massive punch, then drops Peter to the ground. When he tries to get up, the Goblin’s foot lands on his shoulder and presses down hard.

“Hey, Goblin!” Mary Jane’s voice carries like a lion’s roar, loud and powerful. “Get the fuck away from my husband!”

Jesus fuck, what happened to staying in the lab? His wife is standing maybe fifty feet from his arch nemesis, her feet planted in a stance of defiance.  Peter curses Coulson for telling her how to disable the security measures. _In case of emergency, my ass,_ he thinks.

The Goblin cackles, and Mary Jane snarls, “Peter’s too moral to end you, but I’m not.”

“Are you going to kill me, my dear?” The Goblin sneers. “Spider-Man’s pregnant slut?”

“I’m not a slut,” Mary Jane growls. “And you’re just a pathetic old man in a suit who’s about to die.”

The Goblin laughs again, stepping closer to MJ. Peter tries to struggle up, but the Goblin kicks his head, and he collapses again.  “Go ahead, try, dear. Greater men have failed.”

“To answer your question,” she says, looking directly into the Goblin’s yellow eyes that have frozen so many victims, “Yes, I am going to kill you.”

Peter’s Spider-sense tingles just before MJ takes her hand from behind her back and lobs a discarded pumpkin blaster directly at the Goblin. It lands at his feet, too close for him to get out of range in time. Peter catches his web on the building above himself and pulls himself up, missing the explosion by microseconds.  The Goblin shrieks, a piercing, hideous shriek, the sound mingling with the sounds of destruction. Mary Jane throws herself behind a car for cover; oh, God, are she and the baby okay? Peter swings and lands on the car’s hood, peering behind it. “ _Mary Jane!”_

“Peter!” she cries, leaping up and crashing into his arms.

“Are you okay?” They both shout at each other at the same time.

 “I’m fine,” they say, their words intermingling.  “The baby?” Peter asks. “Okay, I think,” MJ says, feeling her stomach.

Peter turns to see the destruction; this time, he has to be _sure_. The Goblin’s body is still on fire, his armor melting and losing its shape. This is it, this time. He’s dead.

“You were amazing,” he tells Mary Jane. “You sure you’re not the secret superhero?”

“No, I think that’s enough for me,” she laughs weakly.

“MJ, you should get out of here and go to the ER to get checked out, just in case. I’ll be there soon, but I should be here when—” He hears the approaching sirens. “When the authorities get here.”

“What if they try to arrest you?”

“That’s nothing new. I don’t think they will this time. I think they’ll be relieved to see me back in town.”

“If you don’t get at least ten gushing editorials, I’m writing every newspaper in New York to complain.” She takes a breath. “Alright, I’m going to get Baby Parker checked out. Meet me there, and be safe.” She kisses his cheek and starts towards the next street over, where she can find a cab. He watches her walk up the street before she turns around and yells, “Oh, and we’re moving back to New York for good!”

“That’s my girl,” he says under his breath.


	8. This Dog-Eared Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last one, folks. I can't believe it. This chapter's title comes from "The Graveyard Near The House" by the Airborne Toxic Event. 
> 
> BUT. There will be a sequel. I was persuaded by a friend, I wasn't planning on it, so it's not one bit written. This could take months to finish- it took me six months to write and edit this. But it's happening!

Things change—for the better.

MJ and Peter both love New York, always have. LA was never home.  They move back within two weeks. Now they return to walks in Central Park and date nights at O’Malley’s. Aunt May resumes residence at Peter’s childhood home, and she even starts dating a man named Jarvis who impresses both Peter and MJ thoroughly. Peter returns to crime-fighting, but no major threats loom now that the Goblin’s gone. He’s happily taking down muggers and petty thieves again. Fury visits, and Peter agrees to work freelance for S.H.I.E.L.D.

They’ve never been so happy.

A few days after they unpack the last box and finish the last touches on the nursery, MJ wakes him up in the middle of the night with a panicked, “The baby’s coming!” Funnily enough, his lionhearted wife can take down supervillains with no fear, but when it comes to motherhood…

Their baby is just as determined as both of her parents, and she seems hell-bent on trying to come out in their car on the way there. By the time they get to the hospital, there’s a wheelchair waiting to roll MJ back to the delivery room and all this is happening entirely too fast for him to process.

“Peter!” she wails, throwing her head back and it feels like her grip is _crushing_ his hand. “It hurts so much,” she whimpers. Another contraction hits and she shrieks.

“Keep going, baby,” he encourages. “You can do it.”

“Do I have a choice?” she bites out. “Is the kid just gonna hang out in my vagina if I tell it to slow down? No. So I’m going to— _OhGodItHurts!”_

“I’m sorry, honey.” He wishes he could just do something to ease the pain.

She screams bloody murder just as their obstetrician says brightly, “You’re fully dilated. Ready to get that baby out?”

“Yes!” MJ yells.

“Okay, can you start pushing for me?”

“Oh, God,” she moans. “Never again, Peter. Never again.”

“Come on, Mary Jane, keep it up!”

“Get out of me, little girl,” MJ grits her teeth, closing her eyes as she pushes again.

Peter loses feeling in his hand as MJ fights to bring their child into the world. Occasionally he hears himself saying the stuff the doctors and Lamaze teacher taught him to say.

“Breathe,” he reminds her, and she smiles dangerously at him and tells him sweetly to shut the hell up.

Finally, when his head is ringing with her screams, Dr. Jen says, “I see the head! C’mon, MJ, let’s finish it!”

MJ closes her eyes and finishes it. The baby slides into Dr. Jen’s hands, and MJ’s body collapses in exhaustion, a soft cry escaping her as a baby’s mewl fills the air.

“Congratulations, Mary Jane,” Dr. Jen says warmly as she hands her a sticky weight. “You’re the mother of a baby girl.”

Mary Jane’s eyes open, and she cradles the little body to hers.  “Hi, honey,” she whispers.  Peter reaches out a hand and sweeps his fingers over the baby’s damp hair, and whispers, “She’s so beautiful.”

The baby is crying softly, and the Doctor puts a hand on her shoulder.  “Let us clean her up and make sure everything’s good, then you can nurse her.”

Mary Jane feels tears prick her eyes as the baby is taken from her arms, and if she’s not imagining it, the baby’s cries get louder and shriller when she’s removed from her mother.  She sniffles and looks up at Peter, and he’s got tears in his eyes.

“Kiss me, you goof,” she whispers. He laughs into her mouth. “Mary Jane Watson-Parker, we are parents.”

“We’re parents!” she laughs. Peter presses his forehead against hers, squeezing her hand.

“Are you ready to try breastfeeding?” A nurse asks, now holding a much less sticky, tiny, pink swaddled body. The baby is no longer full out wailing, just mewling like she’s hungry.

Mary Jane eagerly slips her gown off her shoulder and bares her breast. The baby’s lips fumble, but then latch onto her nipple with surprising force. The sensation is strange, but instills in her an odd sense of pride. Only she can give her baby this.

“You were hungry, huh?” MJ asks, smiling. “Peter, look at her. She’s already eating so good.”

“I’m looking,” he murmurs. His hand strokes the baby’s downy hair.

The baby suckles and suckles, and finally her lips slip away, and she looks at her hovering parents, blinking sleepily. Mary Jane can’t believe how utterly beautiful she is.

“We need to get your girl to get fully checked out,” the nurse says briskly. Seeing MJ’s crestfallen expression, she adds, “It’ll be as quick as possible. Then we’ll let you bond a little more.”

When the entourage of staff has left the room, MJ’s eyes start to droop, and Peter carefully sits down next to her in the end and pulls her close to him. She sighs and snuggles into his warmth.

“You were amazing,” he whispers. “I’ve never loved you more.”

 “Me too,” MJ murmurs. “I’m so glad we had a baby. Let’s have more in many, many years, when I can feel my lower half again.”

He laughs, and his chest rumbles underneath her. “Okay, deal.”   

Both parents have their eyes closed when the noise of the door opening interrupts their sort of doze.

“Sorry,” the nurse—Riley—apologizes.

“No, no,” Peter says, sitting up. “You’ve got my little girl there. No need to apologize for that.”

MJ can’t help the big smile on her face at those words. _My little girl._

“Can I hold her, Mary Jane?” Peter begs, hitting her with big puppy eyes. “For a while?”

She pretends to think about it. “I guess I can let her daddy hold her. Just this once, mind.”

Peter rolls his eyes and stretches out his arms. Riley puts the baby in them, subtly adjusting his arms so the baby is properly supported, and Peter swallows.

“Hi, little girl,” he says softly. “My little girl. God, you’re beautiful. I hope you look like your mama. I’ve never seen anyone prettier than her—except you.”

MJ lays her head on his shoulder, reaching out her hand towards her daughter, who grabs her finger in her miniscule hand and  studies it, eyes wide.

“What eye color do you think she’ll have?” MJ asks. “Once they turn, I mean.”

“Brown, most likely,” Peter says, sounding disappointed. “It’s the dominant gene.”

“Oh, good,” MJ smiles. “ _I_ love your eyes. You know that.”

“What do you think about what I said about the name?” he asks quietly.

“I think it’s perfect for her,” MJ replies.

Peter presses his lips to her cheek, then the baby’s forehead. Her eyes are slipping shut. “May Parker.”

“May Parker,” MJ agrees.  She looks at her husband and her baby, and she has never felt more complete.

-

Five years later, Mary Jane is stumbling around the house, trying to find where the hell the kids are hiding. Usually, they go straight for the shower, or behind the laundry hamper, or one of their four or five other predetermined spots; it’s never been so hard to find them before. Did they go outside, the little cheaters?

She hears giggling nearby as she moves into the kitchen, a telltale sign that she’s close. She checks the cabinets, under the table, but nothing. Where the hell are they?

She looks up, and there are her children, perched on the ceiling and beaming. “ _Fuck!”_ she yelps.

“Mommy, you said a bad word,” May points out, her tone disapproving. What the hell? She’s five!

“You’re right, I’ll put a quarter in the jar,” MJ gets out.

Well, Peter thought this might happen one day.  “My genes were altered by the spider bite,” he explained. “It’s probably very likely that I’ll pass that on. I can’t say whether it’ll manifest or not, but their genetic makeup will at least reflect my mutation.”  And lots of other biology stuff, but that was the gist. They might have spider-babies.

“Hey, pizza man here!” Peter booms out, walking in from the garage with two large pizzas in hand.

“Uh, Peter?” MJ says, pointing at the ceiling. Peter looks up and jumps.

“Hi, Daddy!” Benjy squeaks.

“Hi, Dad!” May chimes in.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter recovers enough to say. “Hi, princess.”

They look at their kids, giggling on the ceiling, and MJ turns to Peter and says, “You’re going to be the one to explain why they can’t be part of Take Your Kid to Work Day.”

“Do you mean the biology or the crime fighting?” Peter asks seriously, and she punches his shoulder before kissing him so thoroughly both of the kids shout “EW!”

“Who wants pizza?” Peter asks, and both kids fucking leap off the ceiling, ignoring MJ’s shout of “CAREFUL!”

“Can you bite me and give _me_ superpowers?” she murmurs to Peter, gesturing at May and Benjy to go wash up and ignoring their pouts.  “I feel left out.”

“Oh I’ll bite you,” he winks. “I think you’ll just get some hickeys, though.”

“You’re a dick,” she scolds, and he kisses her again. “Mm, but a dick that you love,” he agrees, moving behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“It’s just your body,” she says dismissively. “Just animal.”

“Animal, huh?” he whispers in her ear. “I can work with that.”

“Oh, I know,” she whispers back. “But right now, we have to eat dinner with our kids. And you have to tell them they can’t climb on ceilings anywhere but here.”

“But later?” he asks hopefully.

She hears the sound of running feet heading back from the bathroom where they’ve probably just flung water all over the place.  She closes her eyes, leaning back against the solid weight of Peter, smiling like a damn idiot, and says, “Always, Tiger.”

The kids slam into their seats and look at their parents expectantly. “Can we eat?” May asks impatiently.

“Yeah, yeah,” MJ says.  “We live to serve,” Peter adds mockingly. They split to go get plates and distribute pizza, moving in a practiced synchronicity.  The kids tear into their food like wild animals, and she and Peter exchange grins before they dig in too. MJ pauses around a bite of pepperoni, watching Benjy and May make faces at each other and Peter trying to not crack up, and thinks maybe _she’s_ the one that hit the jackpot all those years ago.

 

_It’s better to love, whether you win or lose or die._

_It’s better to love, and I will love you til I die._


End file.
